


"The Spotted Snake": The Unofficial 1st Episode of Sherlock Series 4

by aidan_clark



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8666716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidan_clark/pseuds/aidan_clark
Summary: In "The Spotted Snake," we rejoin Sherlock as past deeds catch up with him in an Adventure that will test his mental fortitude and friendships. As a fan of both the original Arthur Conan Doyle canon and the BBC show, I crafted a story that would pay homage to both. This story is written to read just like the BBC show, and to fit within that canon, based on one of Mark Gatiss' (and my) favorite Holmes stories, "The Speckled Band" - complete with references to the ACD canon, to the BBC show, and to the actors themselves (have fun finding them all!). And, even though it's a story we know well, not everything is as it seems!  Please enjoy and let me know what you think!





	1. Chapter 1

**"The Spotted Snake":**

From the Blog of John H. Watson:  
Wherever you are, whoever you are, as you have read this blog, you’ve come to know my friend.  But, quite frankly, you still know nothing about him.  When I first met Sherlock Holmes, someone told me that when you walk with him, you see the battlefield.  And I have.    
  
All of you only see your own lives—only the things that haunt you.  You bring him your problems—you lay them at his feet—and yet, when he needs help, where are you?  Your mysteries aren’t clean and neat—so his methods aren’t clean and neat—but has that ever bothered you before?  Must you throw him aside—or worse—sit there and do nothing?  You go about your lives—your lives that were made whole by him.  And yet, you turn a blind eye when he needs help.    
  
Perhaps he’s not the most likeable person—not the most polite and polished—yet you come to him when you have nowhere else to turn.  But whom does he go to when he has no one else?  I’m only one man.  I ask you—I beg you—do not turn a blind eye to Sherlock Holmes, someone who remains my dear, dear friend.   
  
He may be unconventional—he might speak his mind too quickly—but he is more real of a person than anyone else I’ve met.  If this blog has helped you at all—tracing our journeys and adventures—and, moreover, if Sherlock has solved your mysteries, then wherever you are, he needs your help.  The world needs to know how important Sherlock Holmes is to it.  If the world values the act of finding out the truth at all, then it needs Sherlock Holmes in it.  We can’t let him fall.   
  
And so, I write for you one more story.  Let it show you the man that Sherlock Holmes is: the man that needs saving, so that he can save you.   
  
\- John H. Watson      
  
**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**  
  
Some time before:   
  
Mycroft put down the newspaper he was holding to look at his brother who was sitting on the other side of the office desk.  “So the transmission,” he said, “the one that filled every screen in the country with Moriarty’s face, seems to have just been some pranksters loyal to him, wanting to revive the persona – using it to further their own social agenda.  Just a bunch of hacktivists.”   
  
“Hacktivists?” Sherlock asked incredulously.   
  
“Yes,” Mycroft mused with a smirk, “Hacker activists…”   
  
“Is that even a real word?” Sherlock interrupted.   
  
“Apparently,” Mycroft answered.   
  
“That can’t be a real word,” Sherlock countered.   
  
“Well, it is,” Mycroft pushed.   
  
“Well,” Sherlock ignored his brother, “Moriarty _is_ dead.”  Sherlock rested his arms on the sides of the chair as he studied his brother.   
  
“Is that so?” Mycroft asked cryptically.   
  
Sherlock sighed.  “Wouldn’t your people know if he was still alive?  His network is gone.  I spent two years working through every criminal offshoot.  Moriarty is dead.  He took a gun to his own head.”   
  
“Or did he?” Mycroft prodded.   
  
Sherlock was growing more irritated with his brother.  “A gun in the mouth would be difficult to come back from,” he said flatly.   
  
“You were the only one on that roof,” Mycroft continued.  “The only one to see him die.”   
  
“You think I’m lying?” Sherlock posed the question, unamused and unshaken.  “It’s true, I was _alone_ on that roof.  There was very little help from you, _brother mine_ .”   
  
“Oh?  What about that version of events you gave to that policeman, Anderson?  Apparently, I was involved a great deal,” Mycroft said with a sly smile.   
  
Sherlock chuckled inwardly, and looked straight back at his brother.  “I’m surprised people believed that.  If I had the entirety of the resources of the British government behind me, then why would I seek help from Molly Hooper and a few vagrants?”   
  
Mycroft chuckled and smiled at this.   
  
“Occam’s Razor, dear brother: the simplest answer is usually the right one,” Sherlock said.   
  
“So?”   
  
“So I didn’t lie,” Sherlock said, “nor would I mistake what real blood and brain-matter look like.”  He paused for a moment, then spoke with conviction, “Moriarty is dead.  Whatever remains of him are computer tricks.  _Hacktivists_ … or whatever you call them.”   
  
Mycroft sighed.  “Of course Moriarty is dead,” he said simply, not showing remorse for his probing and prodding.  “But if the idea of him remains alive, then that is the same as if he were to still draw breath.  You know that.”   
  
"Stop talking in riddles,” Sherlock said defensively, and he got up to leave.  “Now I have to get back to more important things.”   
  
“Oh yes, of course,” Mycroft remarked with a sardonic smile, “solving crimes with John Watson; like that one about the computer engineer’s thumb… I saw that one on the blog last month.”   
  
Sherlock nodded as he met Mycroft’s gaze.  “You should be proud,” he said sarcastically, “I successfully saved an Enigma machine from being stolen from the museum… again.”   
  
“I’d hardly call a fire at Bletchley Park a success,” Mycroft said.  
    
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Mr. Hatherley came to us too late.  Shouldn’t you call for tea or something?” he asked.  “How long do I have to stay and chat?”   
  
Mycroft continued as if he hadn’t heard his brother’s last remark.  “It’s such a terrible waste of a second chance when I could use your help.”   
  
“Thank you for the pardon, Mycroft,” Sherlock retorted, losing his tone of playful banter.  “But we both know that Magnussen had to be stopped.  You should be thanking me.  Now, you can go on saving people from government conspiracies, and I’ll go on saving people from each other.”  Sherlock got up from where he was sitting, put on his coat, turned the collar up, and turned to walk out.    
  
“But things aren’t that simple, brother dear,” Mycroft said with a haunting tone.  Sherlock turned around halfway to look back at his brother.  “There are consequences for these kinds of things.  Ones even I can’t save you from.”   
  
Sherlock’s gaze was distant, though he tried to appear unshaken by the remark.  “You’ll work it out,” he said, sounding less confident than he had intended.  “Keep me informed.”   
  
“Of what?” Mycroft asked.   
  
“I have absolutely no idea,” Sherlock replied.   
  
Then Sherlock turned and left; and Mycroft picked up his newspaper and continued to read about the war in a foreign land.    
  
**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**  
  
Sherlock sat in 221B Baker Street.  It was late.  He raised his violin once more, and that’s when he heard the street level door open.  He deduced who had entered by the individual’s gait and sound of the footsteps on the stairs, which assured him that there was no cause for alarm.  Sherlock lowered his violin and the figure of his friend, John Watson, came through the door and into the room.    
  
John looked at Sherlock and started to open his mouth to explain, but before he could, Sherlock had already looked over his friend and discovered what had happened.   
  
When John realized this, he dispensed with the explanation, and said instead, “I just need to give Mary a bit of space.”   
  
“The room upstairs is yours,” Sherlock said, without hesitation.   
  
John turned, heading for the stairs, but then felt compelled to turn back around.  “We’re going to be just fine,” he said a little too forcefully.  “It was just a little disagreement.”  John edgily shifted his weight from one foot to the other and waited for Sherlock to respond.   
  
Sherlock took in a breath to speak, but John suddenly continued, a hint of defensiveness in his voice, “I know you don’t think very highly of marriage, but...”  He hesitated, then added, “We’ll be just fine.”   
  
Sherlock simply said, “I know.”  He looked over John once more and said, “I can see by your right hand that it will all work out.”   
  
John laughed slightly, without humor, but still amazed at Sherlock’s methods.  “My right… my right hand?” He shook his head with a tense smile.   
  
Sherlock then continued, his voice softening a little, “You and Mary will make it… You have to.”  There was silence for a moment, then Sherlock said, “How’s Violet?”   
  
John smiled.  “She’s great,” he said.  “She’s doing a bit of walking now.”   
  
Sherlock and John both smiled.  “Good night Sherlock,” John said, and he went upstairs to try and sleep.   
  
**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**  
  
The rain came down in sheets as the figure made its way down Baker Street.  The air was cold, and a clouded, black-grey sky clung to the City as the night waned and hinted at a bleak sunrise.  A bundled figure moved at a brisk pace, but froze as a lone cab approached.  The vehicle’s headlights shown on the figure’s face briefly to reveal a young woman, blinking at the pelting rain.  Once the cab passed, the woman crossed the street, and stopped in front of the door to 221B.  She seemed to hesitate for a moment, until a noise further down the street caused her to whip her head around, searching through the darkness for the source of the sound.  Without further pause, she rang the bell.  There was no answer.  She rang again.   
               
Inside, Mrs. Hudson emerged from her flat, irritated that Sherlock wasn’t answering the early caller.  She tied her robe around her nightgown and made for the door.  The bell was ringing with more intensity and frequency now.  “What on earth?” she queried.  Upstairs, a door opened and Sherlock came out into the second-floor hall, dressed in his robe.  Mrs. Hudson glanced up at him.  “One of yours calling at this hour, no doubt,” she said.  “It isn’t at all decent.”   
               
When she reached the door, she opened it to see the young woman standing there, rain-soaked.  “Is this the residence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” the woman asked in a shaky voice.    
  
Immediately, the irritation left Mrs. Hudson’s face as she took in the scene.  “Oh my dear,” she exclaimed.  “Come… come in.  You’re positively sopping.”  The young woman entered and Mrs. Hudson shut the door against the cold.   
  
The young woman looked up at Sherlock, who gave her a brief glance, and then he stepped back inside his flat.   
  
**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**  
  
John Watson stirred in his bed and turned over onto his other side.  His eyes were half open and he suddenly gasped, having been startled by the shape standing at his bedside.  With the aid of the light, coming in through the open doorway, John could see it was Sherlock.  “Bloody hell,” John remarked groggily, as he relaxed a little and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.  Thinking for a moment, he then asked, “What are you doing?”   
  
“We have a client,” Sherlock replied simply.   
  
John grabbed for the bedside clock, looked at it, and then squinted back at his friend.  “It’s six in the morning,” he said.  “Why are they here at this hour?”   
  
“Crime still doesn’t keep nice hours, my domesticated friend,” Sherlock said.  “Come out and see if you’d like.”  Sherlock turned towards the door.  He stopped short, and turned back halfway to look at John again, “It’s sure to be interesting, I imagine.”      
  
“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” John said, exasperated, as he began to get out of bed.  Sherlock then walked out abruptly, leaving John alone once more.   
  
John sighed and got out of bed, curious.  His sleep had been fitful anyway.  He might as well see this client that was so ‘sure to be interesting.’   
  
**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**  
  
John entered the living room.  A young woman in damp clothes was sitting on the couch.  Her soaked-through trench coat and scarf hung on the coat rack.  Mrs. Hudson entered with a small towel in hand—having probably been the only one she could find quickly.  She gave it to the visitor, and the woman dabbed her wet face and hair with it.  For a moment, the woman seemed lost, staring blankly across the room.  Sherlock stood, facing her, his hands clasped behind his back.  John noticed Sherlock scanning her over, taking in all the information that he could about this water-logged client.  Sherlock sighed loudly, obviously impatient with the delay.    
  
Mrs. Hudson shot a glance at him, but realizing it would do no good to reprimand, she took the towel that was no longer being used by the young woman.  The act appeared to break the woman from her reverie, and she gave a weak, yet grateful smile to Mrs. Hudson.    
  
“I’ll make you a nice, hot cup of tea, shall I?” Mrs. Hudson queried, with a gentle, returned smile.  “That should warm you up straight away.”    
  
“Thank you,” the visitor said, attempting to keep the shakiness from her voice.  Mrs. Hudson went into the kitchen.   
  
All at once, the woman seemed to remember where she was, and looked straight at Sherlock.  He gave her a brief, curt smile, as if to say, ‘So, now will you tell me why you brought me out of bed for this?’  But he remained silent for a moment.   
  
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, for coming to you at this hour,” the woman said, as she rose from the couch and walked to him.  She was thin, with a soft and feminine prettiness, and stood a few centimeters shorter than him.   
  
Sherlock suddenly gave a quick, closed-lipped smile and said, “It’s no imposition.”  This seemed to put the woman at some ease.  John knew Sherlock better, and realized that he was feigning cordiality in order to coax her to speak her piece quickly.  The woman said nothing in response, and John could tell that Sherlock was becoming increasingly impatient with each pause.   
  
Sherlock examined her carefully. “Would you mind telling us who you are?” he suddenly asked in a conversational tone.    
  
He quickly put the spurious smile back in place on his face when she looked back up at him.  “Oh yes, of course,” she said, “I’m so sorry.”  She paused. “My name is Helen Stoner, Mr. Holmes.”  She held out her hand.    
  
Sherlock took her hand in his.  “You’re shaking,” he remarked, with a slight intensity in his gaze.   
  
“It is rather miserable out there,” John finally spoke, indicating the weather outside.   
  
Helen didn’t look away from Sherlock, as she addressed the comment.  “It is not the cold that makes me shiver, Mr. Holmes,” she said, as her eyes appeared to dampen.  “It is fear… it is terror.”   
  
Sherlock gestured to the chair across from his, near the fireplace.  “Please, have a seat.  And tell me why you’re here.”  Helen sat on the edge of the chair.  John crossed the room and pulled out a wooden chair from under the table, near the window, and sat.  “This is my associate, John Watson,” Sherlock indicated to Helen.  “You can speak freely in front of him.”   
  
“Yes,” Helen said, “I have read about you both in the papers.  And I’ve seen the website.  This is why I’ve come to you, specifically.”  She paused, shaking her head slightly.  “Honestly, I don’t have anyone else to turn to,” she said with slight despair in her voice.  “But I should tell you why I’m here.”   
  
Sherlock sat down quickly, visibly grateful that he would finally get the information that he craved from her.  He sat back, steepled his hands, and rested them on his lips.  His eyes were fixed on this strange, new client, as if to invite her to go on.   
  
She sighed before beginning, attempting to gather her thoughts.  Her blonde hair was matted to her head from the rain, and she continued to look deeply frightened.   
  
Helen drew in a breath to finally speak.  At that moment, Mrs. Hudson came in with a cup of tea.  She came up to Helen and handed her the drink.  “There you are, my love,” she said.  “Drink that now.”   
  
“Missus Hudson!” Sherlock exclaimed in frustration at the interruption.  It made Helen jump.  Sherlock then softened his voice, but the exasperation was still in his face.  “Please, Mrs. Hudson.”   
  
Mrs. Hudson took the hint.  “Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” she said to all of them.  Shaking her head, she left the room and went back to her own flat.   
  
Sherlock retuned his attention to Helen.  “Please,” he said.   
  
Helen drew breath once more, and started.  “Stoner Capital Group,” she began, “is a financial services firm in the City.”  She spoke steadily now, attempting to put her fear aside in order to get the story out.    
  
“They handle very large accounts,” she continued, “things like sizable investments, funds, trusts, and retirements are common.  My parents founded Stoner Capital, so it’s a family business, as you might have gathered from my name.”   
  
John quietly searched the desk for a pad of paper, ready to take notes, and Sherlock remained fixed and listened.  Helen went on.  “We were a family—my father, mother, my older sister Julia, and me.  Then, my father died in a car accident when I was relatively young.  The business fell to my mother, who ran it well.  She remarried some years later, and she brought my stepfather in on the firm, giving him equal partnership with her.”  Helen paused to take a sip of the tea that was in her hand and glanced in the direction of John, but appeared to look through him.   
  
Her eyes then fluttered quickly back to Sherlock.  “My mother battled cancer for a number of years,” Helen told him.  “About three years ago, she finally succumbed.”  There was a hint of pain in her voice as she said this.  Her next words, however, seemed laced with malice.  She placed the cup of tea on the table next to her chair, and sat further forward.  “My stepfather, Grimesby Roylott, then became sole owner of Stoner Capital.  He has always had a problem with gambling, and, although the clients are unaware, I fear that he’s used the money in those accounts to fund his gambling habits.”   
  
“He’s embezzling funds,” John remarked in surprise.   
  
Helen nodded.  “I don’t have proof, but I imagine it will come out eventually.  Legal action will most certainly destroy the firm.”  She paused.  “Roylott’s proved to be good at finance, if only to hide his dealings, but his background is in medicine.  He was the subject of a malpractice suit some years ago.  A patient, in his care, died.  Though the suit didn’t stick.  Even so, no one in the field would hire him after that.”  Helen swallowed hard.  “So, he has taken possession of my family’s business and good name.  He charmed my mother, but Julia and I never liked him,” she concluded.   
  
Helen glanced back at Sherlock, who was still looking at her intensely.  “I am sorry to take your time Mr. Holmes,” she said, “But I feel that it would make things clearer if you knew the entire story.”   
  
“Please continue,” Sherlock encouraged simply.   
  
Helen nodded and resumed.  “Before either of my parents died, they made provisions for my sister Julia and me,” she said.  “At age 32, both of us were to receive very sizable cash inheritances.”   
  
“But don’t you think Roylott has probably spent it already?” John asked.   
  
“No,” Helen replied.  “The trust was set up in such a way as to be separate from all other family and company assets.  Roylott would have no access to it.  And I also believe that these sums would be protected against any legal action or effort to collect claims directed at Stoner Capital; although, I’m checking with a solicitor on that point,” she added.   
  
“All very interesting,” Sherlock said dismissively, with a wave of his hands, growing more impatient.   
  
Helen continued quickly.  “My thirty-second birthday is in one week.  My sister, 11 months older than me, never got her inheritance.”   
  
John shifted in his chair and stopped taking notes.  “Sorry,” he said, “Is all this about you and your sister’s inheritances?”   
  
Sherlock suddenly dropped his hands and stood up, and walked to the middle of the room.  Helen’s face turned desperate again as she feared that he would not help.  “Please,” she said to his turned back, “that’s not what this is about!  I’m so afraid …” her voice dropped off.   
  
Sherlock spun around to face her once more, after this dramatic outburst.  He then crossed the room, peered out the window briefly, and returned his gaze to her.  “That is abundantly clear,” he said simply.   
  
“It.. it is?” Helen asked incredulously.   
  
“Of course it is,” he said, once again flaunting his abilities.   
  
“I…,” Helen began, confused.   
  
But Sherlock spoke over her.  “It’s unlikely that you walk in the pouring rain as a habit.  Would anyone if they didn’t have to?  You must have a hired company car to drive you around, but you didn’t have it bring you here.  Obviously, you didn’t want to alert anyone at the company—most likely your stepfather—that you were coming here.  You took the tube.  At least part of the way.  The ticket is visible in your coat pocket.  Then you walked the rest of the way here—that was made apparent by the state of you when you arrived.  Most likely, you were worried that someone was following you, and you were trying to evade them.”   
  
“How would you know that?” Helen asked, astonished.   
  
“You’ve been glancing at the window ever since you arrived,” Sherlock responded without hesitation.  “No doubt wondering if you would spot him if you looked out and down to the street below.  In fact, someone did follow you.  I saw him briefly just now, but he moved into shadow when he saw me in the light of the window.”   
  
Helen gasped, and the fear fully returned to her face.  “Sherlock?” John queried in a worried tone, “Is there really someone down there?”  John rose from his chair quickly and exchanged a look with his friend.  Sherlock didn’t seem fazed.  Worry turned to acceptance on John’s face.  “Right then,” John said uncomfortably, and turned back around to Helen.  “Who would be following you?” he asked her.      
  
“I don’t really know,” Helen said, with an anxious look.  “As you can imagine, my stepfather, with his gambling habits, is in debt with some serious people.  The kind of people that harm family members to prompt swift payment.”  She paused to swallow hard.  “I’ve noticed strange people following me before, and I’ve even been attacked on the street once, but the police of course have no leads.  In fact, they think I’m crazy.  Everything I’ve told them for the past year, they haven’t believed.”   
  
“And why is that?” John asked, still showing a bit of uneasiness at the prospect of some unknown person stalking 221B.   
  
“Because I told them that I believed my stepfather is trying to kill me,” Helen said evenly.  “I’m positive that he killed my sister – that’s why I’m here.  You see, if my sister or I die before our thirty-second birthdays, then Roylott inherits.”   
  
“Your sister is dead,” Sherlock said with a quick inward breath, and his eyes lit up, as if things were beginning to take shape in his mind.  There was a painful look on Helen’s face at this moment.   
  
“I was there when she died,” Helen confirmed, while staring at Sherlock.  He moved fast and sat back down in his chair across from her.  John dropped slowly back into his seat.   
Sherlock leaned forward, enthralled at this murderous revelation.  He rested his hands on his lips once more, not breaking his gaze with the woman before him.   
  
“Please be precise with the details,” he entreated her.   
  
“That will be no problem, Mr. Holmes,” Helen said, “The events of that night are burned into my mind, and will forever remain there.”  She sighed heavily, ready to lay her burden at his feet.  Then she began.  “This was about a month before my sister’s thirty-second birthday.  Julia lived in a flat paid for by our stepfather.  That night, I decided to go see her.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.”  She paused for a moment and then continued after she had regrouped her thoughts.  “My sister had told me that afternoon that she needed to talk to me in person the next day.  It was something about Roylott and about the family company, she had said to me.  You see, Julia worked as a financial consultant at Stoner Capital.  She had quite the talent for that sort of thing, like our parents,” Helen said with a reminiscing look.   
  
Then her tone suddenly became very sober and even.  “What bothered me, Mr. Holmes, was the urgency that was in her voice when she said she needed to see me.  So, instead of waiting until the following day, I went to see her that night after I knew she would be home from work.  And what happened after that, I can’t make sense of, but…”   
  
“Let me worry about that part,” Sherlock commanded.  “Tell me what happened when you got to her flat.”   
  
Helen nodded and continued to speak slowly, as if she were reliving that night.  “The building has an interior hallway.  So, I made my way down that hallway to the front door of her flat.  I rang the bell, but there was no answer.  This didn’t concern me, because the flat is rather large, and I guessed that she might be coming from the back.  I knew she had to be home, but had probably gone to bed by that point.  After a time, I knocked.  When there was still no response from inside, I began to worry.  Maybe it was some connection between us that caused the sinking feeling that overtook me.  We were very close.” Helen swallowed and blinked back the moisture that came to her eyes.   
  
“At that moment, the door to her flat opened.  And in almost the same moment, I heard a high-pitched whistling sound coming from inside.  But my attention immediately shifted to my sister,” Helen swallowed hard.  “My dear Julia!” Now, the tears broke free from Helen’s eyes, her head bowed, and she shook gently with silent sobs.   
  
“Just take a moment,” John said.  “It’s alright.”   
  
Sherlock remained silent for only a few seconds and then pressed, “Please continue Miss Stoner.  What happened next?”  John shot him a disapproving look.   
  
Helen looked back at Sherlock, steeling herself to continue, and she seemed determined to finish her tale.  “As my sister’s figure came to the doorway, out of the darkened flat, and into the lit hallway, I could see her face was pale and taut with fear.  It looked like she was in incredible pain.  Then, all of the sudden her body went rigid, and I caught her in my arms as she fell to the floor.  She was gasping, like she couldn’t breathe.  And it all happened so quickly.  My sister’s eyes suddenly locked onto mine, and she said, ‘ _It’s the spotted snake._ ’  I told her not to speak, but she repeated: ‘ _It’s the spotted snake._ ’  And then she was gone,” Helen looked from Sherlock to John and back again.  “I felt the breath go out of my sister in that moment, and she was gone.”   
  
“ _It’s the spotted snake_ ,” John repeated each word.   
  
“You’re quite sure that’s what she said?” Sherlock asked.  Helen nodded.   
  
“The medical examiner said it was sudden cardiac arrest,” Helen said, with a hint of distain, “But Julia was healthy.  She had never been diagnosed with any heart problems.”   
  
John spoke, “A person doesn’t necessarily have to be diagnosed with a heart condition to suffer from sudden cardiac arrest.”   
  
“I know it was Roylott,” Helen interrupted.   
  
“Because your sister was going to tell you something about him,” Sherlock remarked.  Helen nodded again.   
  
“And because her birthday was fast approaching when she was to inherit,” Helen added with distain.  “I insisted that they do a toxicological screen on her,” she continued, “because I just couldn’t accept that her death was a natural one.”   
  
“But they didn’t find any poison, did they?” Sherlock inquired.   
  
“No traces of anything,” Helen confirmed.  “And there were no marks of violence on her either.  Not a bruise or any disturbed or punctured skin… Wait, how did you know that they didn’t find any poison?”   
  
“You wouldn’t be here if they did,” Sherlock said simply, and Helen nodded at the obviousness of it.  “And there was no one else in the flat?” Sherlock asked, almost to himself.  “Was there any sign of forced entry?”     
  
“No, there was no one,” Helen answered, “and no one could have gotten in.  Julia had been threatened also by the people our stepfather was in debt to.  Both of us had state-of-the-art security systems put in, and we always kept all windows and doors locked.”   
  
Sherlock placed his arms on either side of his chair.  A smile formed on his mouth.  “A locked flat.  No sign of entry or violence, and yet your sister died.”   
  
“I’m not crazy Mr. Holmes,” Helen began.   
  
“No, I don’t believe you are Miss Stoner,” Sherlock stopped her.  “This is fascinating to be sure.”  He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair with vigor.   
  
“Sherlock,” John reproved, clearly a bit offended at his friend’s callous attitude.  But he knew it would do no good.   
  
“I’ll take the case,” Sherlock said finally.  “Thank you Miss Stoner.”   
  
Another worried glance passed over Helen’s face, and she said, “I don’t have the money to compensate you, Mr. Holmes.  The amount of my small monthly allowance is controlled by my stepfather.  But I will have discretion over my own finances when I come into my inheritance, and then I’ll repay you.”   
  
“No matter,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hands.  “My work is its own reward.”  John looked at him and started to speak.  Sherlock then gave a quick smile to Helen and spoke over his friend.  “But you can defray any costs that you feel you must.”   
  
Helen nodded and then started to get up from where she was sitting, seeming like she didn’t know what to do next.   
  
“I don’t suppose we’ll be able to look at your sister’s flat,” Sherlock said off-handedly, still sitting.  “Someone else probably occupies it by now.”   
  
“Actually, I’m living there now,” Helen said.   
  
Sherlock looked up at her quickly.  “Then I’ll want to look over the flat later today,” he said.  “Yes, of course,” Helen said quickly.  She stole another glance at the window.   
  
“Let me put you in a cab Ms. Stoner,” John said, realizing that she was worried about the person below who was watching 221B.  “If they already know you’re here, you might as well travel back more comfortably… and safely.”   
  
“Please, call me Helen,” she said absently.  “You should both call me Helen.”   
  
Sherlock stood long enough to walk over to his laptop on the desk.  He sat, flipped open the computer, and began to type vigorously, researching.    
  
John walked Helen downstairs and waited with her outside.  There was no sign of the shadowy figure.  It had stopped raining and they didn’t wait long for a cab to pull up to the curb.  John opened the cab door for the young woman.   
  
“Oh,” she said, “my address, I forgot to give it to you.”  She took the slightly dampened underground ticket from her pocket and wrote the address of her flat on it.   
  
John took the ticket when she held it out to him.  “Don’t worry Helen,” he said.  “If anyone can solve your mystery, it’s Sherlock.”   
  
Helen nodded, with a hint of a smile, and got into the cab.


	2. Chapter 2

John walked back up the stairs to the flat, reading the address written on the ticket as he came into the room.  He sat at the table across from his friend, as Sherlock continued what he was doing on the computer, only glancing up once.     
  
“She lives in Knightsbridge,” John remarked incredulously, referring to the very exclusive address.   
  
“Of course she lives in Knightsbridge,” Sherlock said, not looking up from the computer.   
  
“How did you work that out?” John asked.   
  
“Where else would a person of that status live?” Sherlock replied.  “Plus, the ticket shows a departure from the Knightsbridge Underground station.”   
  
John turned the ticket over in his hand to the side that had been facing Sherlock and smiled to himself at the fact that he had missed this.  Then his expression grew more somber.  “But, she doesn’t seem to be a person of privilege,” he said.  “Her funds and living arrangements are controlled by her stepfather…. And maybe he killed her sister.”   
  
“Hmmm,” Sherlock finally looked at John and nodded at this.    
  
Suddenly, someone started pounding loudly at the street level door.  Sherlock and John hesitated, continuing to look at one another.  Mrs. Hudson could be heard exiting her flat and moving quickly to open the front door, cursing under breath about more early morning callers.  Sherlock’s eyes grew wide as he glanced towards the landing on the top of the stairs just outside the room.     
  
He leapt from his chair and ran towards the stairs.  “Mrs. Hudson, wait! …,” he began, but he was too late.  He reached the landing just in time to see a large figure down below roughly push past Mrs. Hudson at the open door, and take the stairs up, three at a time.     
  
Sherlock walked briskly back into his flat, and then spun around to stare at the intruder.  John, now on guard, stood from his chair and took up a position next to Sherlock.  The huge beast of a man filled the doorway.  He hesitated slightly before entering—only because it seemed that he had to bend somewhat to come through the doorway.    
  
The man entered and stood a few meters from Sherlock, a cold, hard look on his face.  Sherlock, though John could tell his friend was unsettled, stood his ground and did not flinch.  John, a trained soldier, also did not show fear.     
  
The defiant man was ten or twelve centimeters taller than Sherlock, and was massively built.  His very wide and tall frame was not entirely muscle, but it was apparent, by the way he carried himself, that he knew how to use his size to his advantage.  His dark hair was mostly gray, and came to his chin in unkempt, wiry, greasy waves.  Behind his eyes was a vicious gaze.   
  
Sherlock noticed his coat was wet, and that his suit, though very expensive, was disheveled.   _ The man stalking the flat… and Helen.  Stepfather.   _ “What can I do for you Mr. Roylott?” Sherlock said suddenly, in a decidedly even tone.  He returned Roylott’s gaze with one that showed a defiance of his own.   
  
Roylott looked taken aback for a moment that Sherlock knew who he was, but only for a moment.  Not a second later, and the ferocious stare was back in place.  “That’s  _ Dr. _ Roylott to you, Sherlock Holmes.”  He tried to shake Sherlock by stating the detective’s name to show that he knew him as well.   
  
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes in an obvious fashion, as if to say, ‘Yes, everyone knows I’m Sherlock Holmes.’  John made sure his brief, worried glance towards Sherlock was not seen by their visitor.  How far would his friend push this?   
  
A chilling grin broke out on Roylott’s face.  He spoke calmly, though his words felt laced with poison.  “My stepdaughter has been here to see you.  You’ve been talking to Helen, yes?”  His eyes turned patronizing.  “She is overly dramatic.  All actresses are.  Did she tell you she’s in the theatre?  The boys at Scotland Yard are familiar with her lies.  Did she tell you about that?”   
  
Sherlock’s face remained unfazed, and appeared quite… bored.  “ _ Dr. _ Roylott,” Sherlock said with sarcastically appropriate emphasis, “I have not the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”   
  
Roylott’s face suddenly became red, as if his blood was literally boiling up to the surface.  His look turned enraged.  His voice was loud and seemed to shake the building.  “I know Helen came to see you!  I saw her walk in here and leave and get into a cab!  Do not call me stupid Holmes!”   
  
“Now, now  _ Dr. _ ,” Sherlock said, “I did not say  _ ‘stupid’ _ out loud.”   
  
It took a moment for Roylott to catch Sherlock’s meaning, but then he advanced on the detective and came within a few centimeters of his face.     
  
John suddenly realized that, without thinking, he had instinctively positioned his body so that his foot was between Sherlock and the angry man.  A quick glance from Sherlock told John that he was alright, so John retreated his foot, but remained standing very close to the pair.   
  
Roylott’s fists were clenched, and his face was still red, though his mouth twisted into a sickening grin as he leaned closer to Sherlock and looked down at him.  Sherlock stood perfectly still, annoyed at the smell of the man’s breath, but refused to yield.     
  
“I’ve heard about you,” Roylott said in an eerily even voice.  “You’re Holmes the meddler.  Holmes the busybody.”   
  
At this, Sherlock took a few steps back nonchalantly and laughed out loud without reservation.     
  
“You think all of this is funny Holmes?!” Roylott’s voice turned loud again as his eyes followed the detective.   
  
Sherlock stopped laughing, but not because he feared Roylott.  He continued to smile sardonically as he said, “No, I don’t think it’s funny.  It’s just that I don’t think people use the term ‘busybody’ anymore.”    
  
Suddenly, Roylott rushed over to the fireplace and grabbed the poker that was resting there.  Sherlock and John both backed away, unable to control their instinctual reaction.  Roylott raised the poker and it looked like he was about to strike Sherlock; but then, he took it in both of his massive hands and bent the poker until it was almost in an “L” shape.  He then threw the poker to the floor.      
  
“Stay out of it Holmes!” Roylott shouted.  “Helen is a liar.   _ You _ would be stupid to believe the ramblings of some dramatic socialite!”   
  
“I’ll be the judge of who’s rambling,” Sherlock said sternly.  John kept a weather eye on the poker that lay on the floor.  “Now,” Sherlock said, “You’ve overstayed your welcome.  Leave, or I’ll call the police.”   
  
Roylott hesitated for a few moments, as if to make a point.  Then he moved his imposing frame to the door and descended the stairs.  As he was going, he called back up to them.  “Stay out of it Holmes!  I’m warning you!”    
  
Sherlock and John heard the street door slam closed behind Roylott.  John moved to the window just in time to see the man move quickly down the street and out of sight.  He turned back to face his friend.  “What in all of hell was that?” John queried.   
  
“A desperate man,” Sherlock remarked.  He picked up the poker from where it had been tossed to the floor.  He held it in both of his hands and, with a heave, attempted to bend it back straight.  It didn’t budge.  He tried again.  Still, the poker kept its new “L” shape.     
  
“Damn,” Sherlock said, referring to the ruined poker.  He tossed it onto John’s armchair.   
  
“So, it looks like Helen was right,” John said.  “Her stepfather was following her.”   
  
“He wasn’t the one that attacked her on the street before, though,” Sherlock said.  “She would have recognized him.”   
  
“Then it was someone Roylott owed money to?” John asked.   
  
“Most likely,” Sherlock said as he let himself fall into his chair.  His steepled his hands on his lips once more and appeared pensive.   
  
“Poor girl,” John said, as he ran his hand through his hair absently.  John sat down in the desk chair.  He looked at Sherlock.  “So, somebody killed her sister and is trying to kill her.”   
  
“Of course someone killed her sister,” Sherlock said.  “It’s only a matter of finding out who and why.”   
  
“Dr. Royott is looking pretty good right now,” John said, referring to his suspicions.   
  
“Agreed,” Sherlock said, “but we’ll know more once we’ve seen the flat.”  It was 7:30am.  “We’ll go in an hour,” he said.  He rose out of his chair and walked over to the table in the kitchen to check on the experiment he was working on.  He sat and fiddled with the titrator.   
  
“Do you mind if I have a shower?” John asked.   
  
“Be my guest,” Sherlock said, as he worked out the calculations he had laid out on the table.   
  
John walked into the bathroom and was about to close the door when he gave a short yell.  Sherlock remained fixed and unfazed by the outburst.   
  
John poked his head out of the bathroom.  “Please tell me that you decided to shave all your back hair in one go, and just forgot to wash it down… and that there is not a dead rat in the sink,” he said evenly.    
  
“I’m studying the lividity of various rodents,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.   
  
John sighed and shook his head unperceptively.  “Is there anything dead in the bath?”   
  
“Not anymore,” Sherlock answered, not looking up.    
  
“That’s brilliant,” John said with a sarcasm that was lost on his friend.  He went back inside the bathroom and closed the door.   
  
** ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº **  
  
When John came back into the kitchen, dressed, a little while later, Sherlock was still hunched over his experiment.  John turned his attention to the rest of the flat, and as he looked it over, he reminisced about the cases they had solved together and the clients they had met with here.  He liked all of this.   
  
Suddenly, Sherlock rose from his chair at the table and put on his suit jacket.  “Let’s go,” he said, as he went for his coat in the other room.       
  
“Wait, Sherlock,” John said.  Sherlock turned back around.  “I’ll meet you there,” John said.  “I need to take care of canceling my morning appointments.”   
  
** ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº **  
  
About a half an hour later, John’s taxi arrived at Helen’s address.  As the car pulled up to the curb, he could see that Sherlock was already there, waiting on the pavement.  John paid the cabbie and joined his friend.  He took stock of the exclusive street and the decadent building in front of them, and let out a whistle.  “You think it costs much?”   
  
“You pay for the view,” Sherlock said wittily, indicating Hyde Park across the street.   
  
He and John walked up to the front door and Helen buzzed them in.  After ascending a few floors, the pair arrived at the door to Helen’s flat.  Sherlock rang the bell and made mental notes of the features of the interior hallway while they waited.  He looked up and gave a quick smile when Helen opened the door.   
  
“Please, come in,” she said, leading Sherlock and John inside.   
  
The flat was well-furnished and had a modern, comfortable feel, yet still displayed some classic elements.  The floors were hard wood and the wall sconces looked antique.   _ Light bulb burnt out in one of them _ , Sherlock noted.  There was also one very modern element on the wall: a panel near the front door.   _ Security system _ .     
  
Helen led them further into the flat and into the main living space.  There was a fireplace and a sofa, which faced a large built-in bookcase that ran the entire length of the wall and reached from the floor to the ceiling.  It was filled with books and other objects.  The wall next to the shelves was almost entirely taken up with a picture window, overlooking the park.    
  
“How are you this morning?” John asked.   
  
“Better,” Helen said with a weary, yet genuine smile.  She looked better.  Instead of sopping wet clothes, she now wore a comfortable sweater and fitted pants.  She seemed to suddenly perk up and she said, “The kettle’s boiled.  Would you like me to pour tea?”   
  
“That would be nice,” John replied.   
  
Helen smiled at him and then addressed Sherlock, “Through there are the bedrooms,” she said, pointing down a small hallway, “you can start looking wherever you’d like.”   
  
Once Helen left for the kitchen, John walked closer to Sherlock.  Sherlock had taken out his magnifier and was inspecting the coffee table.   
  
“What exactly are we looking for?” John asked in a low voice.  “Maybe signs of a struggle?  It’s been awhile since her sister died.  I don’t think there will be any clues left.”   
  
“No, there won’t be,” Sherlock said as he ran his fingers along a part of the floor, on his hands and knees now.   
  
“Then what are we looking for?” John asked.   
  
Sherlock turned his head to look up at John from his position on the floor.  “Isn’t it obvious?”     
  
The look on John’s face indicated that he wasn’t following the train of thought, so Sherlock went on, “The point of entry.  We’re trying to find how the attacker got in.”   
  
“But then shouldn’t you be looking at doors and windows mate?” John asked.   
  
Sherlock sighed and got up to stand.  “Perhaps…”   
  
“Hmmm?” John queried.    
  
“Did you see the security panel?” Sherlock forged ahead.    
  
“Oh, you saw the security system,” Helen had come back into the room with a tray of teacups and biscuits.     
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “Is that the one your sister had installed?”   
  
“Yes, it is,” Helen confirmed.  “This flat is actually company property.  Roylott handles the payments, and he even hired a regular maid service and a management firm.  I think the firm is Stoke & Moran, or something like that.”    
  
Helen poured the tea and passed the cups around as she continued.  “Roylott had keys to the place, and he used to use this flat for parties he had with some very wild friends of his, who could have had access to those keys.  So, when Julia moved in, she had the locks changed and the security system put in.  She was wary of Roylott, even then.  And, on top of that, she was afraid of the people he might owe money to.”   
  
Helen took a sip of her tea and sat on the edge of the sofa.  “At one point, one of the maids stole a piece of Julia’s jewelry, so she had them stop coming.  I won’t allow any maids or the management company in either.  Anyone being paid by Roylott can’t be trusted, I think,” she said with conviction.  “Needless to say, I’m capable of changing light bulbs, and I can do my own house cleaning.”  Helen chuckled a little.   
  
“Hmm,” Sherlock said absently.   
  
“I wanted to move in here after Julia… died,” she paused, as if unable to say the word.  “I don’t have much to pay for even a modest flat myself and, more than that, I thought if I stayed here that I might be able to find something to help me figure out what happened to my sister.”   
  
“Your stepfather doesn’t mind shelling out the cash to keep this place?” John asked.   
  
“It’s part of the company expenses,” Helen said.  “Julia lived here, and I lived in another flat a few minutes away, also paid for by the company.  When Julia died, Roylott was insistent that I move in here.  And I was eager to have a chance to look around anyway.”    
  
“So, no one else has access to the flat but you?” John asked.   
  
“No, no one,” Helen answered.  “Roylott doesn’t even have the security codes.  No one can get in or out without me knowing.”   
  
“And what,” Sherlock finally spoke, “did the security system indicate about the night Julia died?”   
  
Helen looked down for a moment at the teacup she held in her lap, sighed, and then looked up to meet Sherlock’s gaze.  “No one came in or out.  No one broke in.  The front door only opened when Julia opened it for me.”   
  
The beginnings of a smile touched the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.  “Of course… No one in or out,” he repeated absently.   _ A locked flat, and a captivating mystery _ , Sherlock thought.  He put his cup on the table and went back to looking around.  “Neighbors?” Sherlock said over his shoulder as he continued his search.   
  
“Sorry, what?” Helen asked.   
  
“Your neighbors, do you know them?” Sherlock asked, now looking down at her, where she sat on the sofa.   
  
“Um… there’s a French family on one side, with two teenage children.  And an English couple on that side,” Helen informed him.  “But I don’t see much of either neighbor.”   
  
Sherlock nodded his head once and then walked into the largest bedroom off the hallway.      
  
John smiled at Helen and walked over to a cluster of frames hanging on the wall.  He turned back to Helen.  “You went to Oxford,” he said, referring to the degree in one of the frames.   
  
“Yes,” Helen replied.  “I studied Classics and literature at Oxford, and then I went on to study at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art.”      
  
She gave a reminiscing smile, yet it seemed touched by sadness.  “I always wanted to be an actress,” she told John.  “Julia was the one with the mind for business and finance, like our parents.  She studied at Cambridge.  But we didn’t let that come between us.”  Helen laughed a little and so did John.   
  
“You enjoy acting?” John asked, making conversation.   
  
"Yes, I do,” Helen said, trying to lift her own spirits with happy memories.  “My first role was as Titania in ‘ _ A Midsummer Night’s Dream _ .’”   
  
John then noticed a long rope-like object hanging on the wall.  It looked like an old-fashioned bell pull—the kind used to call service staff.  It hung from a small hook, and there was nothing above it.  “There’s an interesting piece,” he said.   
  
“My sister put that there,” Helen said.  “She liked antique decorations.  I think she got that at the market on Portobello Road.”   
  
Meanwhile, Sherlock was still turning over the rooms.  He came back from the bedrooms and walked along the expansive bookcase, looking at the titles of some of the volumes: ‘ _ Oedipus Rex _ ’ in the original Greek, and a book on Machiavellianism.  He ran his finger along the tops of the books.  _ Dusty _ .  Clearly, Helen didn’t pay a lot of mind to the house cleaning after all.   
  
He walked over to John and Helen.  “What did you find?” John asked him.   
  
Sherlock replied, “Nothing conclusive, but there’s still work to be done.”     
  
A worried look passed over Helen’s face.  “You didn’t find anything,” she said, sounding resigned.   
  
“It’s still early in the game,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly.   
  
John gave Helen a brief smile, but that still didn’t seem to comfort her.  Her face looked drawn and worried as they made for the front door.   
  
Sherlock and John left the flat, with John saying ‘goodbyes’ for the both of them; they walked down, and stood for a moment on the pavement.  “You didn’t find any evidence of how the attacker got in, did you,” John stated.   
  
Sherlock sighed.  “No.  Every window and door is set to trigger the alarm system, and the alarm system is intact and not tampered with… But there has to be a way in,” he replied in frustration.      
  
“What was it that she said?” John asked suddenly, “Julia, I mean.”   
  
“ _ It’s the spotted snake _ ,” Sherlock said, as he vigorously tapped away at his mobile phone.     
  
“You think there’s anything in that?” John asked.   
  
“Hmm?” Sherlock half-heartedly queried, still occupied by his phone.   
  
“An animal maybe?” John suggested.   
  
Sherlock replaced the phone in his pocket, and looked at John, a little incredulous.  “You think a snake killed Julia Stoner?”   
  
“Well, it might be able to sneak in some crevice, or vent perhaps.  There are a few snakes that could cause death in the manner that Helen described,” John surmised.   
  
“Good.  Very good,” Sherlock said unenthusiastically, though John didn’t notice.   
  
“Really?” John asked instead.   
  
“Sure,” Sherlock said.  He hailed a cab.  “You go research that theory,” he told John, “I’m going to Bart’s.  Meet me there later,” he called, as he shut the door and the cab drove off.   
  
John sighed, but it was no use getting frustrated at Sherlock for running off again as he was prone to do.  John hailed his own cab and headed home.


	3. Chapter 3

John hesitated on the steps of his home that he shared with Mary. He'd have to face her. He had reacted too rashly, or had he? Their car was on the street, which was to be expected. Today was one of Mary's days off. After their daughter Violet was born, Mary had decided to be at home more, to be with her. John was agreeable with whatever Mary decided to do—although, he could tell that she was restless. As much as she loved spending time with Violet, Mary was not the type to enjoy running between playgroup meetings and shopping outings, for long. And with all of her unused energy, John thought, she passed the time with getting involved in things that were better left alone.

John opened and entered the front door, prepared, and making an effort to be penitent, yet still running through the words of their argument from the previous evening in his mind. Mary walked over to him and John began to speak.

"Wait," Mary said, interrupting him. "Before you say anything; I didn't realize you'd get upset. I thought I was helping."

John sighed. He could tell Mary was trying to make some sort of apology, though he had a nagging feeling that she was still holding onto some sense that she was right. His assumptions may have been wrong, but that didn't make a lot of difference to his offended ego that was now edging towards the same brink of defensiveness he had nursed last evening.

John sat down on the couch, and Mary sat down near him. Violet was happily occupying herself with some toys on a blanket.

"It's been years since I really talked with my sister. She didn't even come to our wedding, and I didn't realize how much it bothered me." John continued, "So, when you told me that Harry had called, that you spoke to her and invited her over for dinner… Why does she call now? After all this time? And why would you invite her over when we have Violet to think about?" He paused. "My relationship with my sister is my own."

"That's fine, John," Mary said, with her own hint of defensiveness.

"Mary, look…" John began.

"How about lunch?" Mary interrupted.

"Lunch would be great," John said with no real enthusiasm. "Why don't you let me make it," he remarked as he rose from the couch.

"I've got it, John," Mary said. She got up from where she was sitting and was already halfway to the kitchen.

John followed, carrying Violet, and placed her in a high chair near them. As Mary gathered ingredients, John said, "I have to meet Sherlock later."

"You've got a case?" Mary asked as she laid the table.

"Yes," John said simply.

"Well," Mary remarked, with a hint of resentment, "I'll be here."

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

After seeing a few patients, John headed over to Bart's to meet Sherlock. John found him in the lab, pouring over a file of papers. Sherlock was staring at the documents on the lab bench in front of him with as much frustration in his face as John had ever seen him display. "Sherlock, what's that you're looking at?" John asked.

"Post-mortem report for Julia Stoner," Sherlock said quickly, as if the time taken to speak was an immense burden.

John was about to reply, but suddenly Sherlock shouted in frustration. "How can this be? It doesn't make any sense!"

"Well," John said flatly, "if it doesn't make any sense to you, then what hope is there for the rest of us?" he said with a hint of mirth. He continued, now serious, "What are you on about?"

At that moment, the door to the lab opened and Molly came in. "Have you found what you were looking for?" she asked Sherlock.

"You pulled the file for him?" John asked Molly, by way of making conversation. "The post-mortem for the murdered woman?"

"Murdered?" Molly asked, a bit bewildered. "I read through it a little before giving it to Sherlock," Molly told John, "and it said the death was from cardiac arrest." She then turned back to Sherlock. "But you think it's murder."

"I'm entirely _certain_ that it was murder," Sherlock said with conviction. There was silence in the room for a moment as Sherlock continued to puzzle while his friends looked on. Sherlock took out his mobile phone and sent a short text: _personal computer?_ Then he put the phone on the lab bench next to him.

John broke the silence, "I might have something that could help."

"Yes, how did your research into snakes go?" Sherlock asked, sounding unconvinced, and still not looking up.

"Well," John began, seeming pleased with himself, "There's a snake usually found in India called the Dab… Daboia," he looked at his notes, "sometimes called the Russell's Viper…"

"The Lurker," Sherlock muttered.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing. Go on," Sherlock coaxed as he continued his search through the documents in front of him.

Sherlock's phone chimed. He looked at the reply: _in the office._

"Well, a lot of it fits," John went on.

"What fits?" Sherlock asked. He sent another text: _need access._

"The symptoms and circumstances of Julia's death," John continued, despite having to compete with his friend's divided attentions. "A bite from the viper can cause respiratory failure and hypotension, which can lead to sudden cardiac arrest. That was the official cause of death as Helen said."

"Really? A snake?" Molly remarked with a puzzled look.

Sherlock ignored the outburst and spoke in an exasperated tone, "But there would have been swelling and bleeding at the sight of the bite. There was no physical trauma noted in the post-mortem."

"What if it was injected intravenously? With a needle," John suggested.

"You're reaching," Sherlock said, "And there's no mention of needle marks in this report either."

"Well, aren't we reaching with this whole case?" John asked, a little frustrated.

"How do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"I mean, isn't this whole case bordering on the impossible?" John proposed. Sherlock gave him a long, hard look. "Do we really know that this poor girl Julia was murdered?" John continued.

"You believed Helen's story," Sherlock responded.

"Yes, I did," John admitted, "But now we've had a chance to look at the facts. There's nothing to indicate foul play in the post-mortem report, as you said. And you, yourself said that you didn't see any way for an attacker to get into the flat when we visited Helen." John sighed. "Maybe there's no mystery here mate. Maybe everything is as it seems. That Roylott fellow is very unpleasant, that's not disputed… but perhaps he's all talk."

"What's the matter with you?" Sherlock asked, genuinely surprised at his friend's reaction to the case.

John looked defensively at the detective. "Nothing is the matter with me," he said, unconvincingly. Molly looked rapidly back and forth between the pair. Sherlock's intense stare moved vertically—from John's expression, downward. "Don't look at my hand," John said evenly, as he pointed a finger at his friend, trying, but failing, to show conviction.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, returning his gaze to his work. "There is something here!" he raised his voice. He took the file in front of him and slammed it closed. "But why can't I see it?"

"Why is this one so important to you?" John queried quietly, with genuine interest.

Sherlock didn't answer.

His phone chimed again. Molly glanced at the phone that was within her view on the lab bench. The reply said: _early dinner? 1 lombard._

"You're going to dinner with someone?" Molly couldn't help the words that came out of her mouth.

Sherlock picked up his phone, and glanced at it. "Yes," he said dismissively.

John sighed and went on. "Well, the Daboia viper also emits a high-pitched sort of whistle before it attacks," he pointed out absently. "Helen did say she heard a high-pitched whistle of some kind when her sister opened the door."

"Yes, the whistle," Sherlock said in an even tone as he stared blankly, past his friend. "The whistle is very interesting."

"No doubt," John said. He paused, and drew in a long breath. "So, where do we go from here?"

Sherlock looked at his friend now. John gave a brief smile, and they exchanged a look—John had been through many adventures with his friend before, and he would have his friend's back on this one too, no matter how unbelievable it got—as he always would.

A smile began to form on Sherlock's lips. "The game, John, is on."

Sherlock picked up his coat from the worktable, put it on with the usual flair, and walked towards the door. "Perhaps dinner will help this along."

Molly watched as they left.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

On the street, Sherlock hailed a cab, and he and John got inside. Sherlock gave the cabbie the address of 1 Lombard. 1 Lombard Street Brasserie was housed in an old building across from the Bank of England and in the heart of the financial district of London. Sherlock and John exited their cab minutes later and entered the restaurant. A well-dressed man seated the two friends at a crisply laid table near the wall and presented them with menus.

"Nice place," John remarked, referring to the elegant décor around them, and the prices displayed on the menu. "Are we meeting someone?" he asked, indicating the empty spot and place setting across from them.

Sherlock didn't answer.

The place was bustling with activity as smartly-dressed people and financial types ordered food and drink. A few were seated around the grand, circular bar in the middle of the room. The expansive dome-windowed ceiling, directly above, gave a view of the sky. Business men and women chatted with clients and colleagues. Whether it was work or pleasure, all seemed to be enjoying themselves, which lent itself to the stimulating atmosphere.

At that moment, Helen arrived and was ushered to the table. She sat down opposite of the detective and the doctor. "I'm sorry for being late Sherlock, John," she said by way of greeting. "The tube took longer to get here than I expected."

She began to look over her menu and then noticed that John was hesitantly looking over his. "Please," she told them both pleasantly, "order what you'd like. The bill will be taken care of." She smiled. John returned the smile and Sherlock simply finished studying their host before turning his attention to his menu.

John cleared his throat. "This is quite a place," he remarked to Helen, by way of conversation. "Do you come here often?"

Helen didn't look up from her menu as she said, "This was one of Julia's favorite places. Our family's offices are very close to here. For that reason, it will also make it easier for him to slip away for a moment."

John's look turned puzzled. Sherlock looked up at Helen briefly, and then shifted his gaze back down when she looked up at him.

"Sorry, who's going to slip away?" John asked.

Helen turned her gaze to John. "The man who will get us access to the Stoner Capital offices," she said simply.

A sharp-looking waiter approached their tableside and politely requested their food choices. Helen ordered first and asked for a glass of wine to go with her meal. Once Sherlock and John had ordered, the waiter gathered their menus and retreated to the kitchen.

As if on cue, a good-looking man walked into the restaurant and walked over to the bar. He fit in well in the environment; his suit was appropriate for the high-end venue and he had a clean-cut appearance. He ran a hand absently through his reddish-brown hair and flashed a friendly smile—at the man tending to the bar—that touched his blue-green eyes. The man in the suit would often come here for a drink in the evening. He lifted the drink that was set on the counter for him a minute later, and took a long sip. For his polished appearance, he still had a soft and trustworthy look about him.

He walked over to the table when he spotted Helen, and was initially focused on her as he approached; but then his gaze immediately locked onto Sherlock when he reached the edge of the table, and he drew in a sharp breath.

"You hired Sherlock Holmes," the man said, seemingly unable to control the outburst.

Helen appeared unfazed, but Sherlock recognized that she was suppressing a reaction. "Sherlock, John," Helen said, unconvincingly even-toned, and looking at the two of them, "This is Percy Armitage. He's a consultant at Stoner Capital. He works for my stepfather."

John's eyes narrowed in confusion and he shifted in his chair. "He can be trusted," Helen assured her dinner companions.

"Of course it's alright," Sherlock said, to no one in particular, as he looked from Percy to Helen and back. "After all, they were romantically involved at one point."

"What?" Helen asked incredulously with breath behind her voice.

"It's plain to see," Sherlock barreled forward in his usual matter-of-fact way. "You were in a relationship, but _you_ broke it off," he said, indicating Helen.

"How…?" she couldn't finish.

"Did you know that the pupils of one's eyes dilate when one sees something they want, which can, in fact, indicate attraction," Sherlock continued with his usual aloofness. "His pupils dilated as he approached and saw you. Clearly, you broke it off, but he's still hopeful."

Percy sighed loudly in irritation, but Helen just stared blankly at the detective.

"Coupled with your impersonal greeting, and the strong drink _he_ got before coming over here—there's still pain there obviously. You're the one that ended it," Sherlock deduced. He pressed on. "And, if he works closely with your stepfather and you still trust him, there had to be a strong connection to make that trust reasonable." He finished, sounding pleased with himself.

Helen stood swiftly from her chair, almost knocking it over. Now, even her slight frame looked very assuming. There was a millisecond of silence as John's jaw dropped involuntarily, and Percy, with what seemed to be humorless smirk of incredulity forming at the corners of his mouth, stared at Sherlock. Sherlock, in this moment, was uncharacteristically silent, and was looking up at Helen with what seemed like penitence.

"You," Helen addressed the detective directly across from her. She opened her mouth to say something more, but instead, she said nothing else, other than "Percy," as she indicated that she wanted him to follow her away from the table.

They stood in another corner of the room.

"You hired Sherlock Holmes," Percy repeated himself, attempting to speak in a hushed tone so the other diners could not overhear.

"Yes, I did," Helen said quickly, cutting him off.

"You know," Percy said softly, "when you called me, and asked me to meet you here, I thought it was just going to be you and me. I haven't heard from you in ages."

"And you were _still hopeful_ ," Helen used Sherlock's words sardonically.

"That's not fair," Percy said firmly. "Sherlock Holmes is an egotistical sod, and he's known for it. Not to mention all that stuff about Richard Brook and the Met not even trusting him…"

"He was cleared of all that," Helen defended.

But Percy went on, "Did you know that that newspaper owner, Charles Milver-whatever died, in his home, under unusual circumstances, and that's it been suggested that Holmes was somehow involved?"

"I didn't hire him for his bedside manner," Helen said curtly, "And I don't care about rumors." Helen's voice rose as she continued, drawing the attention of some of the people seated nearby to where they were standing. "I needed someone who would trust me—who would take me seriously," she said, "And Sherlock at least believes me. Someone murdered Julia. And where were you after she died, Percy, hum? Why didn't you take my side after the post-mortem report came out? Instead, you agreed with the cops and the doctors. And that's why it ended between us, remember?"

Helen shifted her stance and continued to stare straight at Percy, as she continued, "Sherlock knows something isn't right about all of it, else he wouldn't have agreed to help me. At least Sherlock is here to help when I need it."

Percy looked at her incredulously, his eyes showing hurt, and flashing with a bit of anger that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. His own voice rose as he spoke. " _Sherlock_? Was Sherlock there right after your sister died? Was Sherlock there when you couldn't get up out of bed for a month after it happened? Was he the one to stay with you—to try and piece you back together? Was he the one by your side that whole time?" Percy paused for a moment. "Julia was my friend—we worked together. She's the one who introduced us. I was devastated too when she died."

Helen brought her voice low, but her words carried resentment. "I just needed you to believe me."

"I did, if you remember correctly," Percy said with a sigh. "I was right there with you." He paused a moment to look at Helen, his eyes held care and love. Helen shifted her gaze downward. "And then everyone said it was cardiac arrest," he said, sounding resigned. "And, no matter how hard we looked, there was no evidence to suggest anything else. And I thought that maybe…" his words dropped off.

"You thought what?" Helen coaxed with frustrated tone. "You thought they were right?"

Percy sighed again, a deep breath out that filled the emptiness between them. "I thought… even if Julia was murdered, and even if it was by Roylott, I thought that it would be better for you, so that you could heal, if we just put it behind us."

"I can't just leave it be," Helen shot. "That won't help me or anyone."

"And has obsessing over it helped you?" Percy interjected matter-of-factly. Helen opened her mouth to say something, but then didn't. "You haven't worked since she died," Percy said. "And you love acting. You stay in that apartment all the time, hoping to find something that convicts Roylott," he told her. And though his words were bluntly honest, his tone held affectionate concern.

"That's not true. I do other things," Helen rebutted with frustration. "I just went for an audition."

"Yes, I heard about that. Our friend—the director in the West End—she told me you auditioned for a production there," Percy said. He proceeded hesitantly, "So, after hearing that… and then you called me… I thought maybe things were... on the mend."

Helen looked up at Percy and spoke with renewed firmness and resolve. "I'm not giving up until I find out what happened to Julia," she said, as her voice elevated, "And until I prevent it from happening to _me_ too."

"If you feel like you're in danger, I'm here," Percy said resolutely. "Let me help. You haven't called. I thought you wanted me to give you space…"

"You can help," Helen cut him off, impatiently. "I need your key card to the office."

"My key card?" Percy inquired, confused.

"I need to look at some things," Helen said.

"You know you can always come by. It is your family's business after all," Percy said. "You always used to stop by… when Julia was there." He paused, hesitant to continue. "I wish we could go back to those times…" He looked like he wanted to reach out to touch Helen, but he held back.

"I need to see what I can find there," Helen said, ignoring his last comment. "And Roylott can't be there, and it needs to be tonight."

Percy took in a breath as he finally understood what Helen's intent was.

Helen said, "You know as well as I do that Roylott's doing bad business."

"I'm almost certain he is," Percy agreed. "But he's good at it. I've never seen any proof." He paused as the realization hit him, "You think Julia found proof?"

"Didn't she say anything to you?" Helen asked.

"No, she didn't mention anything to me," Percy offered. They both looked at each other for a beat. "You know I stay there because of you, right?" Percy told her with pain behind his voice. "Grimesby Roylott is a bastard if I ever knew one. But I stay because no one else is left. No one else is left that gives a damn about what your parents built."

"I know," Helen said, the first touch of softness coming to her voice. "You usually work late," Helen continued, the business back in her tone, though her frustration was gone. "So, no one will suspect anything if your key card is used later tonight. Take the evening off. And, come to think of it, I'll need your key to the lobby door too."

"I'm coming with you," Percy said.

"Sherlock needs to look through my family's office, and he doesn't need anyone to encumber the process," she responded simply. "I'll find a way to get your key card back to you by morning. You still take the tube to the Bank station to get here in the morning, right?" she asked matter-of-factly, but didn't wait for a reply. "So, we'll do a quick hand-off at the station."

"Alright," Percy resigned. He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved the key card and lobby key, and handed them to Helen. "Smithson and Witherspoon sometimes work late too now. You'll have to be sure they're not there either," he said. Helen turned and started to walk away. "Helen," Percy called. She turned back to face him once more. "Whatever you need, just let me know," he said. "I'm always here."

Helen nodded once and turned away, resuming her course back to the table, where her food now sat, getting cold.

Percy walked back over to the bar and placed some cash in front of one of the bartenders—a lot more cash than was necessary to cover the price of his drink. He pointed to Helen's table and the bartender nodded, taking the money. Percy left the restaurant and didn't look back.

Helen stood at the table's edge for a moment. Sherlock sat there, by himself, looking up at her inquisitively. She picked up the remainder of Percy's drink, that he had left on the table, and downed the rest of it in one gulp. She kept hold of the glass when she sat down, once again across from the detective.

"Where's John?" she asked, absently.

"The washroom," Sherlock responded. He paused for a moment, and then said, "He said I should apologize."

"What?" Helen asked inattentively, glass still in hand.

"He said I should apologize," Sherlock told her.

"No need," Helen said simply. "It was true. What you said was all true," she said with a humorless smirk, and she gave Sherlock a long look, as he watched her expression.

Helen shifted her gaze downward at the table. "Sometimes, Mr. Holmes, the world needs people who are willing to do what others can't," she said.

She finally set the glass cup down and, looking pained, she said, "Do you believe my stepfather killed Julia? Because there are some days that I'm not so sure anymore." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "It ages you. Finding out what the world is like—what people are really capable of… Julia always knew what to do in difficult situations. She wasn't much older than me, but somehow it seemed like the difference between us was more like 11 years than 11 months... Promise me that you will find out what happened to her."

They sat there for a long moment, and then Sherlock said with conviction, "I will solve your mystery Helen. I will find out what happened to your sister."

Helen smiled hesitantly, and Sherlock gave a reassuring smile back. This woman, he thought; she showed up at Baker Street, terrified, just this morning. And yet, he was starting to discover that there was more to her than that shivering young woman. He was beginning to see; she was also willing to do what other people couldn't, in order to find out the truth. And for that, he was beginning to understand her.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

Sherlock, John and Helen exited the restaurant and stood on the pavement. Helen scanned the street, almost involuntarily. Sherlock noticed. Then she turned to look up at him. "The offices are at 41 Lothbury," she said. "Just on the other side of the Bank." She looked from Sherlock to John and back now as she continued, "Come at ten and find a place across the street where you won't be seen. Then watch for a light in the upper floor window to turn on. That will be your cue to come in and join me…"

"It's best if John and I go alone," Sherlock cut her off.

"I'm coming with you," Helen insisted, as her expression conveyed that she would not be convinced to do otherwise. "That office belongs to my family," she said. "And, you'll also need me to make sure that none of the other consultants decided to work late. If they see me, I can make some kind of excuse. But there would be no explanation for why you two would be there."

Sherlock sighed loudly, obviously put out by the thought of having someone else along.

"Alright," John said agreeably, attempting to move the conversation past the issue. "We'll be there at midnight."

Helen nodded once, turned, and started to walk across the street to the Underground station. "Oh, and Helen," John called. Helen turned back around to face the two. "Thanks for dinner," he said with an appreciative smile. Helen smiled back and then resumed her course. Moments later, she disappeared beneath the street into Bank station.

"Well, what do we do now?" John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at his friend and said, "We come back, tonight."


	4. Chapter 4

Helen rounded the corner onto Bartholomew at 9:40pm and approached the offices at 41 Lothbury. The street was relatively quiet at this hour. Swiftly, she ascended the front steps and paused when she reached the front door of the building. She glanced over her shoulder and then returned her attention to the door, where she slipped the lobby key that she had gotten from Percy into the lock. Helen entered the building and left the large lobby door unlocked.

Her shoes clicked against the Italian marble floors of the expansive lobby as she made her way to the elevator. Only a few dim lights illuminated her way now that it was after hours. During the day, the grand space was filled with various people doing business.

Helen traveled up in the elevator to the floor which housed the offices of Stoner Capital Group. When she encountered the frosted glass double doors that bore her family's name, she took out Percy's key card and touched it to the plate on the wall. With a quiet beep, the lock released and Helen entered.

The office was as she remembered it. The light Italian marble floors continued into the reception area. The long and seamless maple front desk stood in front of her, and the large windows opposite it, normally letting in light, were now dark, spotted with the city lights from the outside.

Helen hesitantly walked forward into the room, but stopped short. Cameron Smithson emerged from the offices in the back and came to stand next to the front desk. He stared at Helen with a pleased simile on his face. Cameron wore a sharp suit, and his dark hair was styled to the current trend, but his face was altogether forgettable in its features. Helen knew that it was far more important to remember him by the kind of person that he was.

"Helen," Cameron said smoothly, "I didn't expect you here at this hour, but it's good to see you." He smiled, charmingly, but Helen wasn't fooled. "Can I help you with something?"

"I don't need your help," Helen replied, standing her ground in the middle of the room.

Cameron moved towards her. "I see you used Armitage's card to get in," he said softly, as if he knew he had gotten ahold of some secret.

"Roylott took my key card," Helen said.

"Well, you don't really have any reason to be here," Cameron said shrewdly.

"It's _my_ family's business," Helen retorted.

"You never were a real part of it," he said. The comment pricked Helen's heart. "Though I always enjoyed your visits. I suppose a tight skirt is the costume of all you theatre types, and it was a nice sight to break up my day." He chuckled without restraint. "Just leave the financial business to the big boys." He grinned. "And speaking of leaving things to those who can handle it—Roylott gave me the Freeman account."

Helen immediately recognized the name. "The Freemans have been clients almost since my parents opened this place," she said. "Percy was handling their account."

Cameron smiled like the cat that ate the canary now, as he moved uncomfortably close to Helen. "Roylott felt that the Freeman account was too complex for Armitage to handle. They require a more…" he grinned even wider, "a more skilled hand."

Helen fumed. The Freemans had trusted the Stoners with their money for as long as she could remember. "Roylott only gave you that account because you're in his pocket," she said firmly with a flash of anger in her eyes. Helen knew that Percy wouldn't steal from the Freemans, or anyone else, but Cameron would – for Roylott.

Cameron chuckled sardonically. He looked Helen up and down, not bothering to disguise his lingering look. He didn't need to touch Helen for her to feel completely violated. "You know," he said, "there are other things in this office currently that could use a more skilled hand." He took a deep and audible breath in. "There's a lot that Percy lacks."

Helen stared straight back at Cameron with a bold gaze and a sly smile that took him by surprise. She took a deliberate and confident step back, away from him. "You don't get to acquire all of Percy's accounts," she said resolutely.

Cameron laughed it off as he said, "Well, you're here awfully late."

Helen's expression and tone quickly changed to conversational, as if on purpose. "I'm here to go through Julia's office… It's time for me to pack things up." Helen made her eyes go misty.

"Oh," Cameron said, as he suddenly looked uncomfortable. "I was done for the evening anyway. I'll be going then."

When he came back to the front room after collecting his coat and briefcase, he made for the front door. Helen called after him, her tone sarcastically pleasant, "Have a good night Cameron."

She grinned to herself. Expertly done, she thought.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

Sherlock concealed himself, and his gaze, as he watched a man exit the front doors of the office building. John followed suit and stayed hidden in the shadow of the building across the street, where they waited. Once the man was gone, and down the street, Sherlock returned his gaze to the upper windows of the building that housed Helen's family's business.

One of the windows suddenly became fully illuminated, as the light in the room was turned on. "That's our cue, John," Sherlock said. They swiftly moved across the street and entered the unlocked doors of the building.

It seemed to only take Sherlock a few steps to cross the large lobby and reach the elevator. John followed closely behind. As Sherlock stared forward, not really seeing his reflection in the metallic elevator wall as they rode up, John absentmindedly hummed along to the instrumental version of a famous song that played softly from some unseen source in the elevator.

Sherlock suddenly looked at John, an eyebrow raised. "I wanna hold your hand," John said in his defense.

"Sorry, what?"

"The Beetles," John said, "Don't tell me you don't know the…" he stopped. "Yeah, never mind," he said instead.

At that moment, the elevator doors opened, and they disembarked. When they reached the doors to the family business, they found Helen there, holding the door open for them. "That man that left," Sherlock said as they entered and closed the door, "He came from here."

"Yes, I got rid of him," Helen said simply. She caught John's look and added, "Don't worry, he doesn't suspect a thing."

"What did you say to him?" John asked, half curious.

"I said something that would make him so uncomfortable that he would choose to leave," Helen answered. "I told him that I was going to clean out my sister's untouched office… and I turned on a bit of the waterworks."

"Why would that make him uncomfortable?" John wanted to know.

"That alone wouldn't," Helen said, her voice even. "But the thought of me crying more or getting emotional, as I would go through her things…" she paused and then found the words, "wouldn't be very _attractive_." She smiled sardonically to herself.

Sherlock paused for a long moment to look at Helen. The look was long enough that John noticed. "Where is your stepfather's office?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"At the end of the hall, here," Helen answered. She pointed down a short hallway to a private office. The door was closed.

"Do you have the key?" John asked.

"No," Helen replied.

John looked confused. "Then how are we supposed to get in?"

Helen looked calm as she explained. "Roylott doesn't keep it locked," she said.

"The bloke who quite probably has evidence of his financial misdeeds in his office, doesn't leave it locked?" John asked, incredulous.

"Oh," Sherlock said in a drawn out breath of understanding, as he looked past both of them.

"Everyone is afraid of Roylott – even the consultants that probably steal for him," Helen focused on John. "No one would dare go into his office, unlocked or not."

"He gets off on the power play," Sherlock commented, almost to himself.

"Yes," Helen confirmed as Sherlock put words to her thoughts.

Sherlock looked to her, and she gestured with her hand as if to invite him to proceed down the hallway. Sherlock led the way, as John and Helen followed. He opened the door to the well-appointed private office of Dr. Grimsby Roylott.

John turned on the light as Sherlock sat at the solid desk, a computer in front of him. For a moment, Helen caught the thought of a cherished and faraway memory of her father sitting at that very desk. It had been a very long time since she had been in this office.

John stood over Sherlock at the computer, watching what his friend would do next. Helen rested herself against a bookcase, slightly removed from the pair.

Sherlock woke the computer from its sleep, and was met with a login screen.

"Well, he keeps his computer locked at least," John remarked.

"Easily handled if one knows the password," Sherlock remarked.

"Do you?" John inquired.

The look on Sherlock's face clearly indicated that he did not. He started to inspect the items on the desk, and then proceeded to turn out the desk drawers. "Careful," Helen cautioned. "Roylott will notice if anything is out of place."

"Everything will be as it was," Sherlock said quickly as he focused on each trinket that he encountered. He tossed items aside with unintelligible grunts of dissatisfaction. The picture without a frame that he picked up and held in his hand also received such a sound… until he turned it over to inspect the back. A few words were scrawled there: names. He tossed that aside too.

"Let's try the obvious, shall we?" Sherlock remarked. "Birthdate?" he asked Helen. She gave it him, and the detective typed it into the computer. _'Invalid password'_ was the digital reply.

Sherlock picked up a small receipt that he had previously set aside. It bore the name of a pub, and listed the purchases of some drinks. He turned it over and saw that there were some written markings. _Keeping track of gambling debts_ ,Sherlock thought. This pub must also be a gambling house. Amongst the papers on the desk there were two more, no three… no, four more receipts from the same establishment. _Repeat customer._

Sherlock placed his fingers back on the keyboard. He typed the name of the pub into the password box. The screen shot to life. Sherlock had guessed correctly.

"Nice work!" John exclaimed when he saw that the contents of the computer were now open to them.

Helen came over to stand behind Sherlock. She and John watched as Sherlock clicked through files and folders; one after another held perfectly innocuous financial reports, documents and spreadsheets.

"There's nothing!" Helen exclaimed in frustration. "Everything looks as it should. And Roylott walks!"

John sighed. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed unshaken in his determination by their companion's outburst. He starred at a handful of data files for a long moment. "These files," he said, "These image files. Their file sizes are bigger than they should be."

"The file sizes are bigger than they should be?" Helen asked, the frustration not leaving her voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"

John interrupted, "We just had a case helping some software engineer. Now Sherlock thinks he knows everything about computers. You'd think that he thought he was Turing himself."

"One does pick up a few things," Sherlock stated, "If one pays attention."

"But what does it mean?" Helen insisted.

"Steganography," the detective said simply.

Helen cast a confused look at John. John sighed, upset with himself now that he hadn't recalled that information until Sherlock had said it. "It's a method of hiding information," John explained to Helen. "Entire files can be hidden in an image."

"So the file sizes," Helen said, "That means that there's more information there than is normal."

"Precisely," Sherlock said. At that moment, he plugged in a small, external drive that he had been carrying with him, into the port on the computer.

"What's that?" Helen asked.

"I brought software," Sherlock answered quickly. "It's helpful to be prepared for whatever we might find. This hex editor will allow me to verify that there is data hidden in these images… if what I gleaned from Hatherley proves to be useful."

Helen watched as Sherlock used his software to inspect chunks of what looked like random numbers and letters. She couldn't imagine how any sense could be made of it.

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed. "He did hide his files in these images." Sherlock focused his attention on one image of a goose standing on a lakeside. "It's here, but it's encrypted. We'll need the key to access it."

"Another password?" John asked.

"Yes, and I doubt it will be as easy to guess as the last one," Sherlock remarked. Once again, his eyes spanned the contents that covered the desk. "Think!" he commanded himself.

The outburst made Helen jump. "I can't imagine what it could be," she said.

"Quiet!" Sherlock demanded to everyone and everything. He placed his fingers on his temples and retreated to his mind palace. There, he tossed the contents of his mind, like he had tossed the contents of Roylott's desk. Every scrap of paper, he examined. _The picture. The names._

Suddenly, Sherlock opened his eyes. He retrieved the picture with the scrawled names on the back that he had tossed aside before. Now, he looked intently at the writing, as if it held the answers to everything that he was looking for. He held up the picture and caught Helen's attention with a concentrated gaze. "Who are these people?" he demanded of her. John stopped what he was doing, as he had again been rifling through drawer contents as well. Now he too looked at the picture that Sherlock gripped in his hand, that familiar feeling coming back to him: not entirely knowing what it all meant, but knowing that Sherlock did.

Helen shook her head in confusion and doubt. "They're friends of Roylott's I think," she said. "From university, when he studied medicine."

"They had a nickname for him," Sherlock raced forward with his thoughts, his voice raised with decisiveness.

"I… I don't know…" Helen began.

"The Viper," Sherlock cut her off, and cut the air, with his words—repeating the name that he had found penned on the back of the old picture.

"Yes…" Helen remembered vaguely. "I think I do remember him mentioning something like that once."

"Don't you see John?" Sherlock startled his friend, for John had not realized that Sherlock's gaze had turned to him. "This case may be about a snake after all."

"The Russel's Viper?" John asked, confused and thinking back to when Sherlock had completely dismissed his theory.

"No," Sherlock said definitively, "but about The Viper, yes." Sherlock turned back to the computer. "A Viper is a snake. A snake with spots… A spotted snake."

"A spotted snake?" John asked, even more confused.

"Or rather, _The_ Spotted Snake," Sherlock stated. Helen, not only looked confused, but was beginning to look distressed at her lack of understanding.

" _It's the spotted snake_ ," Sherlock said quietly.

"What?" Helen asked, her level of distress rising at the mention of a phrase that brought back painful memories.

"Your sister's dying words," Sherlock stated. "The. Spotted. Snake," he said each word separately. He typed a phrase into the computer, hit return, and the files were readable; decrypted and there for all to see.

Sherlock looked back at Helen. "It was 'the spotted snake,'" he told her.

"The key!" Helen exclaimed.

"The key," John understood.

"Your sister gave you Roylott's key with her dying breath," Sherlock said.

Helen looked as if she would faint. Her eyes welled with tears, but she forced them back. "Julia was going to tell me what she had found out about Roylott," she managed to say. "But she didn't get that chance…" her voice dropped off.

"Yes. So instead she told you how you could see what she had found," John finished the thought. John watched the young woman as she struggled to keep her composure; he wanted to help, but wasn't sure how. The gravity of the secret she had held, but didn't know she had, passed over her face. Her countenance showed the mourning of her sister; but even more distressing, it showed an anger with herself, though John knew there was nothing she could have done better.

Sherlock clicked through files that appeared to be ledgers of a sort. John focused in on them over Sherlock's shoulder. "He's moving funds around," John said. "Look there and there." He pointed at the screen. Helen looked as well.

"He's siphoning money out of accounts," Sherlock said.

"But I don't understand these letters," John remarked, referring to capitalized letters typed next to the amounts of money.

"Probably codes known only to him that represent clients and entities," Sherlock replied, as he continued to scan through the digital records.

"Why would he keep such a detailed record of everything he's done?" Helen asked, incredulous.

"Look at all of these," Sherlock said as he scrolled through at a quick pace. "Roylott needs to move funds around without alerting the victims to the embezzlement."

"He steals money, but shuffles things in such a way as to avoid suspicion," Helen concluded, as she understood. "And he'd lose track without a record," she said quietly.

"But your stepfather's gambling habit seems to have gotten the better of him," Sherlock said, now looking at the most recent records. "He's getting a bit thinly spread," he finished, almost to himself.

"And that's why he needs my inheritance," Helen said, breathlessly. "And that's why he needed Julia's."

Sherlock turned his attention to some emails that had also been tucked away behind Roylott's encrypted barrier. One in particular caught his eye. Sherlock was unaware of anyone else in the room as he opened it and read the contents. Old memories, buried and forgotten, floated to the surface of his mind.

"He had a lover?!" Helen gasped. She had been reading the email over Sherlock's shoulder—the contents of which were explicit. It disgusted her. "Who's 'The Woman'?" Helen managed to ask.

"How…?" John began.

"The timeframe," Helen cut him off. "This email was sent when my mother…" she swallowed hard. "…When my mother was in the hospital, dying. Roylott was having an affair as my mother lie dying." Helen's face went hot, and her hands turned cold.

"How is that possible?" John asked, almost to himself.

"That she's alive?" Sherlock retorted. "She was supposed to be in a witness protection scheme, as I was told," he said to John, caustically.

"And yet, you seem to know for certain that she's alive," John shot back at him.

"And _you_ are surprised that she _is_ alive," Sherlock caught him.

Neither man noticed the faraway look in Helen's eyes. "Excuse me," she said, and then rushed out of the office.

"What have you done?" John asked Sherlock.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

Helen stood over the sink and in front of the mirror, in the bathroom down the hall. She splashed some water on her neck, some of the droplets wetting her dress as they sprayed. Helen looked at her own reflection. She thought her eyes looked old; and not in the areas around the eyes that tended to wrinkle with age, but in the eyes themselves. They had seen far too much of the darker side of human nature, and it had aged her.

Finally, she left the bathroom and returned to the main reception area of her family's office. John came in from the hallway and walked tentatively up to Helen. She didn't look well. "I thought even he would care," she said.

"Well, he doesn't always think things through, but deep down somewhere, I think he cares," John said quietly, reflecting on his friend, Sherlock.

"With all due respect, John," Helen said firmly, "You don't know my stepfather. I thought even he would have the decency to not have an affair as my mother spent her last days in hospital. I thought maybe he loved her, at least a little."

In that moment, John realized they had not been speaking about the same person, but just then Sherlock came out to meet them, and the subject passed.

"You have what you need to prove Roylott's fraud," Sherlock said to the young woman. But the response he saw in her eyes was just what he expected.

"I know," Helen said simply. "But what of murder?"

Sherlock smiled. It was clear to him that getting Roylott for just his financial crimes was not going to be good enough for her. And that was fine with him.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

Sherlock and John parted ways with Helen after she locked up the office. "We'll have to get a cab," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Where are we going?" John asked. He had put their disagreement to the side for now. John had learned that it did no good to question what Sherlock did or said. Instead, focusing on the task at hand, and the person that they were trying to help, was what was called for in the moment.

"I believe I know where we may be able to find some answers," the detective replied.

"How?" John inquired.

"In one of the ledgers, it referred to money owed…"

"Yeah, okay," John said.

"The coded name next to those amounts," Sherlock continued, "I'm certain it was referring to the same pub that issued all those receipts that Roylott had in his desk."

"So, he likes to go to the same pub," John said dismissively.

"It must also be a gambling house," Sherlock said. "And it's a place to start." The pair walked out to the main road, and Sherlock hailed a cab. After they got in, Sherlock continued, "They may be better capable of telling us how desperate Roylott really is, and perhaps what he is willing to do to pay them."

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

The cab drove the two to Lambeth and dropped them off at the end of a street. Sherlock exited the cab first and gazed down the road. John exited next and looked at his friend expectantly. After a few beats, the cabbie peered out of the window at the pair of them. "Um?" he said. John looked confused, but Sherlock looked at John, seeming to indicate that his friend should pay the driver.

John sighed, and took out his wallet. "What?" Sherlock asked. "I'm out of cash."

"Aren't you always?" John replied.

Sherlock turned up his coat collar in response and started walking with John at his side. "Cash," John said suddenly.

"What are you on about?" Sherlock asked absently.

"This case," John said, "It's all about cash. Those that don't have enough of it. Those that are coming into it. And speaking of that, Helen should get the inheritance that she deserves, and she said she would pay you for your help. That should solve some of your cash problems."

"I wouldn't take it," Sherlock said, eyes forward as he walked.

"Look," John said, "It's okay to get just compensation from your clients." He looked once at his friend.

"This whole case is about money," Sherlock said absently, as if he hadn't heard what the doctor had said. "Something so trivial."

John paused for a moment as he tried to read the detective's face. "I've seen you refuse payment before," he said. "Sargent Donovan said once that you simply get some kind of sick satisfaction from what you do. I don't believe that for a second. I know, to you, your work is its own reward, but… But this case is different…" Sherlock had stopped on the footpath. "Sherlock?" John inquired, watching his friend's faraway glance. "Sherlock? Why is this case different?"

"There," Sherlock said, pointing to a storefront a few meters ahead of them. "That's it. The pub Roylott frequents. The one captioned on all his receipts." John sighed. "C'mon John!" Sherlock said, as he took large strides ahead.

The London Eye glowed and stood near. It seemed to watch the pair—carefully observing their movements in the dark night.

Sherlock and John entered the pub. It was quiet, and almost completely empty. A woman tended the bar and was polishing glasses. Across the room, a man lay comfortably slumped at one of the tall tables. Sherlock also observed another man, sitting in a chair by a door, near the back, who looked to be dozing. Sherlock suddenly stopped at an unoccupied table. "Look John," he said.

"It's a goose," John said, commenting on the etched figure of the animal on the pub's personalized drinking glass, which Sherlock had picked up from the table and was turning in his hand.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "A goose—just like the picture in which Roylott hid his files."

"I'd say this is the place then," John said quietly.

"Yes, the goose holds the prize, doesn't it?" Sherlock remarked.

They walked up to the bar. "I'd like to see the proprietor," Sherlock told the woman tending the bar.

She looked him over. "He's off. I'm managing tonight," she said. "What can I get you to drink?" she asked with a flirtatious smile. "Something tall perhaps… " she said as her gaze went from Sherlock's shoes, up to his eyes.

Sherlock's gaze was constant and unaffected.

"We just need to know how to reach the owner," John said to the woman.

"Oh come aaaweff it!" came the voice from the man slumped over the table, seeming to be talking to no one in particular. But now his head was up. He was very clearly intoxicated. "Do us another, love?" he called to the bartender. "Something tall," he chuckled to himself. "Or even something short. Just a couple of fingers. Neat. Neat and tidy," he said with a slight slur. He chuckled again, as he got down from his stool with some trouble. The bartender scoffed and walked over to the other end of the bar where she proceeded to resume her polishing routine.

The tipsy man came to stand near Sherlock and John. "Hello," he said to them with a saucy grin. "I'm Ron Adair. At least, that's what mmmy friends call me… But you can call me Ronald," he laughed aloud and clapped a hand on John's shoulder, which John quickly and expertly shrugged away. Ron looked closer at Sherlock. His glossy eyes went wide. "Wait, I know you!" he said a little too loudly for an empty pub. "I recognize you from the telly! You're Sherrrlock Holmes!" He laughed.

Sherlock glanced at the man that had been dozing in the back. The man's eyes were now open and alert, watching the scene. Sherlock's gaze turned towards four fruit machines along the back wall. He directed his comments to the man at the back. "You've got a number of those," Sherlock said, his voice carrying through the small pub. "I don't suppose you have a special license for those, do you?" The man at the back shifted uncomfortably and rose from his sitting position.

"I didn't think so," Sherlock said. "Duty free too, I would imagine." Sherlock moved forward. "Should we call the Gambling Commission?"

The man in the back shifted nervously on his feet. The bartender put her hand up, as if to stay him. She looked at Sherlock. "We'd simply pay the fine," she said. "I'm not sure what you're looking for, but you'd better leave."

"And the Gambling Commission?" Sherlock pushed.

"Call them," the woman replied quickly. "We're not worried."

"Well," Sherlock said, "you could pay the fine and have your machines seized, but why risk the Commission finding out about the illegal, high stakes game going on beyond that door; the one that your friend is so conspicuously protecting."

John watched the man and realized that his frame was a lot larger than it had looked when he was sitting; and he didn't look very nervous anymore. The tension in the room was broken by a laugh from Ron Adair. "Oh, c'mon!" he said in the direction of the man and the bartender. "Let my friends in on the game."

"You run this pub?" John asked Ron.

"Ohhh, no," Ron said with a chuckle, seeming a bit more sober. "I just frequent the place." He looked at Sherlock. "I bet you'd be good at poker!" he said with a wide smile and a hiccup.

"Yes," Sherlock said to the man in the back and to the bartender, "Let us in the game." The two of them looked resigned. The woman began to wipe down the bar with a scowl. The man in the back, moved his chair aside, and opened the door, which seemed to lead to a basement. He watched the other three pass with a menacing look.

"Oh, not to worry," Ron told Sherlock and John, with an easy and intoxicated grin, "They're just cross because this game is usually by invitation only. But you're my new friends, so I'm inviting you!" he said with a flourish of his hands and a chuckle.

They descended the stairs into a large room with a poker table and a number of players seated around it. The lighting was dim. There was an older man at the table who seemed to carry a confident air about him. But Sherlock looked instead at the younger man in the leather jacket that also sat at the table. "You're the proprietor," Sherlock said to him.

"Why do you say that?" the young man with slicked back hair asked.

"You have a revolver in your jacket," Sherlock said. "The jacket has stretched to its shape—no doubt you carry it with you always… Someone with this kind of establishment would feel the need for that kind of weapon."

"It doesn't bother them," the young man said with a dismissive smile, indicating the others around the table.

"And I'll bet they don't mind putting down a thousand or two quid on the table too, to buy in," Sherlock said.

"Try five thousand," Ron said with a drunken laugh. John looked at him in horror, and the young man looked at Ron with irritation.

Seeming to ignore the comment, the young man at the table said, "Do you bet, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock seemed unfazed, but the young man went on as if he had struck a nerve. "Yeah, I know who you are, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. My father knows who you are too—he's the one that lets me run this place." He smiled as Sherlock seemed to search his memory. "Oh, don't worry," the proprietor said, "We've never had dealings with you. But let's just say that when you run certain operations as a family business here in London, you keep a watchful eye on those who may or may not make trouble for your interests."

He smiled again. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes. So, would you care to join us? Since Adair has been so kind as to invite you to our circle?" he said with some distain.

"I just have one question for you," Sherlock said, not bothering to cover up the malice in his voice. "Did Grimesby Roylott pay you to kill his stepdaughter, Helen Stoner?" The young man's look gave away nothing. "Did you attack Helen on the street?" Sherlock pressed.

The young man leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Some men delay in paying their debts, Mr. Holmes. And those men need to be persuaded to settle their accounts."

The others seated around the table tried to conceal their nervousness over the situation—some more skillfully than others. "So you would kill Helen?" John's words burst out.

The proprietor shook his head as if offended by the suggestion. "Killing is such a nasty, unlucrative business," he said. "Persuasion is far more successful."

"But attacking Helen on the street won't persuade Roylott!" Sherlock shot back with firmness. "He doesn't care what happens to her."

The young man straightened in his chair, determined to be through with the conversation. "Sit, Mr. Holmes," he said. "You look like someone who could weigh the odds. It'll be refreshing to have someone at this table who's not so easy to beat." There were a few sighs at the table after that remark.

Instead of sitting, Sherlock turned and swiftly went back up the stairs. John took one last look at the young man, and followed.

John met Sherlock just outside the pub. The air was cold and dark in the late night that was giving way to the approaching morning. "You think it's him?" John asked Sherlock.

"You remember Helen saying earlier that she was attacked? She went to the police, but they did nothing?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John said. "He all but admitted being the one who did it. Either him or another in his crime family." John sighed. "But he could still be the one that Roylott enlisted to kill both Julia and Helen. I doubt he'd so readily admit to that."

"Yes, that's doubtful," Sherlock said.

"Look," John said, "I'd better get home. Even though I told Mary I'd be away tonight, she'll still be looking for me to help with Violet in the morning, and I have patients to see early."

"Right," Sherlock said, looking far away.

"I'll come by later," John said. Then he chased down a cab that was traveling by.

It took Sherlock a minute before he realized that his friend was gone. He didn't know how long he had been standing there in front of the pub. At that moment, Ron Adair came out and stood by Sherlock. He was quiet for a minute.

" _Did you miss me?_ " Ron said.

"What?" Sherlock asked in disbelief as he suddenly starred at Adair.

"That's what _he_ told me to ask you," Adair said with a still-drunken chuckle.

His grin disappeared when Sherlock grabbed his coat collar and pulled Ron roughly forward. His smile evaporated into a look of surprise. "What's gotten into you?" Ron managed to ask.

"Who?!" Sherlock demanded. "Who told you to say that?!"

"I… I," Adair stammered. All of the sudden, he forced himself free of Sherlock's grip and ran away quickly. Sherlock pursued him, passing in front of the pub's front windows and to the next street corner. Adair slipped away into the dark, and Sherlock was alone on the street.

Sherlock breathed heavily, trying to recuperate oxygen. _What had Adair said? And why had he said it?_


	5. Chapter 5

Helen lied in bed, quiet and still. The drawn curtains made the room dark and closed off from the City outside. Helen's hair was swept across the pillow, soft and peaceful; her form covered by a duvet. One of her forearms dangled from the edge of the bed, wrist upturned, motionless.

The dark figure approached, looming tall over her. The figure took Helen's wrist in a gloved hand. The move was gentle, hesitant. The hand paused, watching for Helen's steady breaths. Then the figure brought another gloved hand forward.

The wrist of the once-sleeping Helen jerked, and with it, the forearm. She tugged away roughly. Helen drew in a gasp, and threw off the duvet. She tried to wrestle free of the hand that still gripped her arm, but it was no use. Instinct taking over, she slid off the bed towards the figure and began fighting for her life.

She wrenched her arm back and forth, fighting through the pain of twisting. She had to get free. The figure's other hand reached for her neck, but found no prize in the dark. Helen thrust her free palm forward, hoping. And she got it! Her hand connected with what felt like a face. She heard a groan. Suddenly the hand gripping her arm let go. She heard hurried footsteps moving away from her.

Helen leapt across the room, going for the light switch. The light flooded her bedroom. No one was there. She ran to her living room and turned on the light. But there was no one there. Helen took in hurried breaths.

She went back into her bedroom and sunk to the floor, tears swelling in her eyes, her ears filled with her own breathless sobs. She ran her hands through her hair and hung her head low, moving her gaze towards the floor before leaning on her bed frame and crying some more.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked John at 221 B. Baker Street. They were both sitting near the fireplace. "I thought you said you had patients in the morning. That Mary would be needing you."

"I checked in with Mary," John said from his chair. "She said she was alright. Took one look at me and practically begged me to go. She understands all of this. I'll give her that."

Sherlock smiled a thin-lipped smile as he placed his steepled hands on his mouth. "I knew I always liked her," he said.

"No, you didn't," John said quickly and matter-of-factly. "And damn my patients. I mean, not damn them, but I can still see them in the morning. I have to know what you think of that gambling boss from the pub."

Sherlock looked at the face of his eager friend. His own face turned pensive at the thought of the night's events. "Not exactly the boss, is he… But I…" Sherlock began, but he was suddenly cut off by the ringing of the downstairs front door bell.

Whoever was at the door didn't bother to pause before ringing again, and again. It became more frantic. A barrage of knocks on the door accompanied the ringing.

Sherlock flew down the stairs and reached the bottom floor just as Mrs. Hudson emerged from her room, curlers in her hair. Her face was contorted with concern. "Sherlock, honestly, the hours you keep! It'll wake the whole street!"

Sherlock was at the front door. He opened it. There, on the front stoop, stood Helen, disheveled, with clothes that looked like they had been thrown on with no thought of appearance. She looked straight up at Sherlock for a moment, completely silent, as he looked back. All of the sudden, she collapsed into the door frame, gripping it for support.

Without hesitation, Sherlock caught her and led her inside, shutting the door. Mrs. Hudson looked at Helen, let out a gasp and an "Oh my sweet dear," as she clapped her hand over her mouth at the sight.

"John!" Sherlock called up to his friend with authority and urgency in his voice. He put his arm around Helen and helped her up the stairs. A couple of times, Sherlock could feel Helen pulling away a little, as if she wanted to make the climb on her own, but then her knees would give out, and she would lean into him, as if for a much-needed respite.

When they reached the top landing, Helen, still supported by Sherlock, let out a soft "I'm sorry," through her sobs. It was barely audible to him, even though he was right beside her.

John came forward and helped Helen onto the sofa. Sherlock backed away slowly and came to stand in front of the fireplace, watching John and Helen as they sat. He parted his dressing gown with a flourish, and put his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"May I take a look at you?" John asked her gently. "To make sure you're alright."

Helen managed a jittery nod. She blinked slowly a few times and sniffled. "I'm sorry," she said again, loud enough that everyone could hear. She began to cry again, but she seemed to force it back, trying to steel herself, and she started to shake slightly. "I'm sorry… for for… coming here so late," she managed to get out before another sob took hold.

Sherlock watched her, and Helen looked up at him. "I didn't know where else to go," she said through tears.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head in distress, and stood in the doorway to the flat, like she didn't know what to do with herself.

"Can we take this off?" John asked Helen, indicating her coat that was haphazardly thrown on. Helen nodded, and John helped her out of the sleeves. It was then that he saw her forearm. "That hurts," he said at the sight of the deep red bruises. Helen nodded.

"That's where he grabbed me," she managed to say.

"Who grabbed you?" Sherlock perked up and posed his question with his usual forcefulness.

John shot him a glare. He continued inspecting the damage as he said, with as much cordiality as he could muster, "She's had quite a shock, Sherlock. Perhaps those questions are best posed later on."

"No," Helen said, a quiver in her voice. "Sherlock's right. It's best… it's best to get it all out while it's still fresh." Helen looked up at Sherlock again. "I'm sorry," she said. She breathed deeply and rubbed her face with her hand, sighing hard against the tears. She continued to look at him with red eyes, waiting.

Suddenly, Sherlock understood. She had been apologizing for her lack of composure. Her look told him that she wanted to move on and tell him what he needed to know. John and Mrs. Hudson fretted on, unaware of the exchange of understanding. Sherlock observed Helen's shivering frame, bruised and ruffled, yet with eyes fixed on him, awaiting the help that only he could give. She had been intent on her goal when she first came to see him, and she was even more resolved now.

"In your own words," Sherlock said clinically. John cleared his throat in irritation and Mrs. Hudson scoffed, but he pressed on, as Helen chocked back her tears and pushed forward to meet his questions. "Describe to me what happened. Exactly as you remember it."

Sherlock turned to face the window, absently staring outward, yet picturing everything in his mind. Helen looked at his turned back, as she described the events.

"I went to bed. Shortly after I got home following our meeting," Helen said. Her voice sounded stuffy, as if she was swollen from all the crying, but underneath there was a hint of strong determination.

"I checked the front door, and all the windows, to see if they were locked—as I always do before bed," she continued. "And I think…"

"No conclusions, please," Sherlock cut her off with a raised hand, turning to look at her. "Just the events exactly as they happened."

Helen nodded, and continued. Sherlock turned again towards the window, listening and thinking. "I fell asleep not long after I lied down," she said. "And then I was awoken." She paused.

"You were awoken by what?" Sherlock prompted.

"I didn't know what it was at first," Helen said. "I was half asleep. But after a second or two, I realized that someone was holding onto my arm. Without thinking, I tried to pull away, but he held on…"

"You say 'he,'" Sherlock said. "Do you know it was a 'he'?"

"Well, no," Helen answered. "But… but I would assume because of the strength of the grip…" Sherlock looked at her, but before he could say anything, she said, "Right. No assumptions." John looked from Sherlock back to Helen with concern for the young woman and irritation at his friend, yet Helen seemed eager to continue, so he kept silent.

"I found myself standing on the floor next, fighting off whoever it was," Helen said. "I swung my free hand towards what I hoped was my attacker's head, and I connected with a face. Then, whoever it was just let go. I could hear the person running away from me, towards the living room and the front door. I went to turn on the lights in every room, but the person was nowhere to be found."

With this, Sherlock swiftly turned around to face Helen, looking at her intently, the wheels turning. "You were alone in your flat then?"

Helen paused a moment before she answered, her expression became very ominous. "Sherlock," she said, "There was no one anywhere in my flat. The windows were still shut and locked. The front door—the only door out of the flat—was locked from the inside. And the alarm—which was still intact—hadn't been tripped."

Sherlock drew in a breath, and placed his hands on his lips, churning this new information around in his mind. "There was no one there," Helen repeated, "and no trace of anyone having been there." She paused. "It was as if I was attacked by a ghost."

"A ghost that's very intent on killing you," Sherlock said, deep in thought.

"That's what I don't understand," Helen said, breaking Sherlock from his reverie. "Why did he or she just let me go?" she asked him. "The strength was too much for me to break free, and yet… he or she just let me go and disappeared."

"That's perhaps the most important question," Sherlock remarked.

"Oh," Helen said suddenly, "I almost forgot, with everything that's happened." She reached into the pocket of her coat, which was draped over the sofa behind where she was sitting. She pulled out a small wad of baking parchment. Sherlock walked over to the sofa to stand in front of her. Helen opened the parchment gingerly, and handed it to him.

Sherlock looked at the item contained within the parchment. It was a small, rectangular piece of thin, clear plastic that had been haphazardly folded on itself, making it slightly crinkled. He held it up slightly, to catch more light. _Carpet fibers_. He could see some sticking to the clear plastic. "Where did you find this?" he asked.

"It was on the floor in my bedroom," Helen replied. "I noticed it right near the spot where I was struggling with the attacker." She watched him look at her clue. "I wrapped it in baking parchment so as to preserve fingerprints, or such things," she said hesitantly.

Sherlock turned his attention to Helen. "Yes," he said, "This is very good. Very good indeed." He walked quickly into the kitchen.

Helen turned to look at John, who said, "I think he wishes all of his clients had a mind to pick up clues."

After a while, Helen said, "I'm sorry. I must be keeping you from your wife and family."

"It's quite alright," John said with a kind of brotherly gentleness. "Mary understands what I do." Helen nodded. "How do you feel other than your arm?" he asked.

"Okay, I suppose," Helen said. "More emotional harm than physical," she said with a slight smile, giving an attempt to lighten the subject. "You all must have thought I was quite the sight."

"Not to worry dear," Mrs. Hudson chimed in. "You've had a horrid night."

"We're glad you're alright," John told Helen.

Just then, Sherlock came back into the room and threw off his dressing gown with a flourish. Already dressed in his usual shirt and trousers, he reached for his suit jacket, coat and scarf. "Where are you off to?" John asked him.

"Bart's," Sherlock said as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. "I need the laboratory. We may have just gotten our break in this case."

"I'll come with you," John said, as he rose from the sofa. He looked at Helen. "Mrs. Hudson can fix you some tea, and you just rest here. You'll be safe." Mrs. Hudson nodded with a friendly smile.

Helen looked from John to Sherlock as she got up from where she had been sitting. "Please," she entreated Sherlock, "I want to come with you. I need to know who attacked me."

"My dear," Mrs. Hudson said, "You've had a rough night. You should rest."

"Please," Helen entreated again.

This time Sherlock looked at her. He nodded.

Helen grabbed her coat and said a quick "thank you" to Mrs. Hudson. John hung back to make sure Helen was alright as she walked. Sherlock bounded down the stairs and out the front door. He hailed a cab—the only one on the street at the present hour. Sherlock climbed in first, with John next. Helen got in last and closed the door. Sherlock gave the cabbie their destination, and they were off.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

Sherlock turned the small piece of clear plastic around in a pair of tweezing instruments. He gently peeled apart the folded and crumpled parts with his metal utensils. Unfolded, the plastic was about 5 centimeters square. Its corners were slightly rounded. He placed the plastic clue in a petri dish that sat on the counter in the Bart's laboratory, and he began his battery of tests. He sat up straight on the stool and was aware of nothing else around him as he worked.

Helen stood at the head of the large counter workspace, her back to the double-doored entrance. John rested against the counter opposite where his friend was working, facing him. John absently held his chin in his hand as he glanced from his friend to Helen. She alternated glances at Sherlock, with staring at her hands that rested on the counter; staring, but seeing nothing. Time passed with the same cycle of glances repeating. John watched with concern as Helen took in a deep breath and let it out. Her look was blank, and she appeared numb.

Suddenly the door behind Helen opened, and Molly came in quickly. She walked over to Sherlock and placed a thin file on the counter next to him. "Here's the file… the post mortem on Ms. Julia Stoner, that you wanted to see again," Molly said, as she stood by Sherlock.

Sherlock said nothing. He remained intent on the various chemical tests he was performing. John cleared his throat loudly. "Thank you Molly," Sherlock said quickly and evenly, not looking up.

"It's okay… Really," Molly said with a short smile to John's disapproving look. She walked back towards the door and stopped near Helen. "I'm Molly," she said.

"Helen," responded the other woman with a weak smile.

"This is remarkable!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed.

"What is it?" Helen perked up and turned her gaze quickly back to Sherlock. Molly glanced back and forth between Helen and Sherlock. "What did you find?" Helen asked the detective as she made her way around the edge of the counter towards him. Molly gave one more look to the pair and, trying to hide a deflated look, backed away and left through the doors.

"Sherlock?" Helen inquired again.

"Was your sister allergic to latex?" the detective asked her.

"What?" Helen asked, surprised.

"It's a simple question," Sherlock said. "Was Julia allergic to latex?"

"Ye… yes, I think so," Helen replied. "Only slightly, though."

"There is latex adhesive on this patch," Sherlock said, conclusively.

John stepped forward. "But that wouldn't kill her," John said to Sherlock, looking at Helen as well. "Especially if the allergy was only slight."

"But you don't see, John," Sherlock said, now looking up at his friend. "This report," he said, placing his hand firmly on the post mortem file, "denoted the presence of a speckled rash on Julia's arm. A rash that was barely mentioned here in the file. Obviously, the examiner didn't think it was worth any concern. Admittedly, at first, I didn't either."

"There was a rash because she was allergic…" Helen said, almost to herself.

"You called it a patch," John said. "Are you saying that was stuck to Julia's arm, and…"

"The latex caused a rash, yes," Sherlock confirmed John's conclusion.

"But John said that wouldn't have killed her," Helen said, a little frustrated.

Sherlock held the petri dish with the plastic patch up to his eye level. He looked at it with grim fascination. "Not much unlike my nicotine patches, John," he said. "It's so expertly sinister," Sherlock mused. John and Helen stood in stunned silence, awaiting the answer to the mystery of the patch.

"This patch," Sherlock continued, "contains a very deadly poison."

Sherlock placed the dish on the counter. "Aconitine," he said with conviction. "A deadly toxin from the monkshood plant." He continued, "This patch was crafted to affix to the skin and deliver the poison by cutaneous absorption. Through the skin."

"Through her skin?!" Helen asked in disbelief.

John sighed. "That would explain the cardiac and respiratory failure," he said solemnly.

Helen looked to John, and she spoke softly, her eyes pleading with him. "Did she die quickly?"

"I…" John's voice dropped off.

"Tell me," Helen pleaded.

"It would have been very unpleasant, Helen," John said, as delicately as he could. "It depends on how much of the poison was administered, but… usually the effects aren't instantaneously fatal."

"Julia's attacker stuck around to make sure she died, and to remove the patch to cover his tracks—there's no mention of anything like this patch being found on the body," Sherlock added casually. John shot him a critical look.

Sherlock heard Helen take in a deep breath. He looked up at her. For just a moment, she looked as if she would faint, but then her expression became steeled; a hint the fear she was trying to suppress could still be discerned from her eyes. As he observed this reaction in her, he suddenly knew what had to be done.

"Who did this?" Helen asked quietly, to no one in particular.

"Likely someone with a knowledge of biochemistry," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Like someone who one practiced in the medical field," Helen said with malice in her voice. "Like my stepfather."

"But you said your attacker couldn't have been Roylott," John said.

"We shall soon find out who is behind this," Sherlock said with confidence as he arose from his stool. "We will find who tried to affix this patch to your arm earlier tonight. Like they did to Julia before you." Suddenly, he added, "Helen," he said, "you need to be under police protection while John and I go after the attacker."

Helen quickly spun her head to look at the detective, clearly opposed to the idea of being left out of the chase. John looked at Sherlock with sudden incredulity. Was his friend concerned about their client? Perhaps… No, not Sherlock. It wasn't like him to show that type of concern. And yet, John thought, the way that his friend had been handling this whole case was unlike him, at least in the areas where the young Miss Stoner was concerned.

"Wait," Helen said. "Where are you going? I want to come with you."

Sherlock looked at John, and then at their client. "I know where we can find the person that is trying to kill you."

"Then I'm coming with you," Helen argued.

"John," Sherlock said to the doctor, "Hail a cab downstairs." John took one more confused look at the pair and then did what his friend asked. He walked out of the laboratory and downstairs.

Sherlock put on his coat and scarf. Helen stood in front of him, determined, and trying to push down her fear.

Sherlock looked at her with intensity, and with the usual harshness in his voice. "Helen, you misunderstand," he said. "You need to be under police protection."

Helen looked at him for a moment and stiffened her stance. Not backing down, Sherlock took out his phone and dialed.


	6. Chapter 6

John stood at the curb, holding the cab door open. He watched as Sherlock and Helen exited the building, walking swiftly, side by side. He narrowed his eyes to look, as if that would help him understand. Sherlock reached the cab first and got inside. Helen followed after him, and sat between Sherlock and John.

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock instructed the driver quickly.

John looked over at Helen. At first, he was worried that she would notice his inquisitive look, but she didn't appear to notice much of anything; her gaze was fixed forward. The haunted look he had become accustomed to seeing in her eyes now had a strange calmness to it. He also noticed his friend's gaze, which was more familiar. Sherlock sat, his arm resting on the window ledge, watching the night city rush past them, looking like he had not a care in the world.

After a very quiet cab ride, the three disembarked at Scotland Yard. John realized where they were headed when Sherlock pushed the elevator button for the floor that was home to the office of the Met's finest, Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock entered his office without knocking, as usual. Helen and John followed. John greeted a very tired-looking Detective Inspector. Sherlock, of course, said nothing by way of salutation; but, before he could say his piece, Lestrade piped up, "I was just on my way out when I got your call. But it sounded urgent."

"It is," Sherlock said. "This is Helen Stoner." Lestrade nodded in recognition of the name that was given to him over the phone just minutes earlier. "Her life is in danger," Sherlock added with a grim look.

Lestrade's face turned solemn and protective. "Yes, you told me," he said. "What have you got yourself mixed up in this time Sherlock?" he asked.

"The usual," Sherlock said sardonically, but then his expression turned serious. "I would entrust Ms. Stoner to no one else, my friend," he told Lestrade.

John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade. This night just kept getting odder and odder. But Lestrade seemed bolstered by the remark. Lestrade looked at Helen, who still wore her vacant expression, though he didn't seem to notice. "You'll be safe here," he assured her.

"I want her placed with no one else," Sherlock told the Detective Inspector, as Sherlock looked at Helen—a gaze that she returned. "Keep her here in your office," he said.

"You have my word," Lestrade volunteered quickly.

Without further acknowledgment or farewell, Sherlock moved for the door. John followed him, confused at the entire scene. He looked over at Sherlock as they rode the elevator down.

"Did you bring your gun?" Sherlock asked John without looking back at him.

They exited the elevator and went out onto the street. "Do you even need to ask?" John remarked.

A smile formed on Sherlock's lips. "Why? Because the answer is always 'yes'?" he asked as he hailed a cab.

"No," John said. "Because of the apparent bulge in my jacket pocket… It fits the dimensions of a British Army L9A1. Obvious." He smiled back at his friend as a cab approached.

Sherlock's look turned pensive as he said, "Good. We'll need it."

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

Back in Lestrade's office, Helen stood in front of the window and looked out into the night and onto the street below. The Detective Inspector sat at his desk, catching up on a few reports. He stopped chattering away on the computer keyboard for a moment to look up at his blonde charge. "I'm sure Sherlock will make sure that you're safe," he said in her direction.

Helen looked over at him, but didn't say a word. "You know," he continued, "Sherlock's methods are a bit… unorthodox, but I've never seen one target of his slip through his grip." Helen rotated to face Lestrade, and seemed to be listening more intently now. Lestrade nodded, more to himself. "You can trust him," he finally said.

Helen nodded. "I believe that," she said.

"He really is quite remarkable," Lestrade continued. Helen watched him, and her face softened as she listened. "In some of the darkest times, with some of the worst villains, he has always come through," he reminisced. "I said once that Sherlock was a great man, and that we'd all be lucky if he would also be a good man." Lestrade nodded more vigorously now, as he looked at Helen. "But I do believe he is a good man." He smiled, and added, "In his own way."

A slight smile formed on Helen's lips as she watched Lestrade. He smiled back, and a few moments of comfortable silence passed between them.

"How, um," Lestrade began, tentatively breaking the silence. "How did you two meet?" he asked with a friendly tone, as he tried to discern what he could about the strange circumstances that brought this young woman to stand in front of him. She was pretty, and that's about all he could gather at this moment, given their brief interaction. As nice as she seemed, she just didn't seem to be the type; not someone that he would expect for his friend at all. But, then again, what did he know about that aspect of his friend really?

"I went to his flat in the middle of the night," Helen said.

"Ah," Lestrade said, like he understood, but really didn't.

"When I brought him my case," Helen added.

Lestrade looked back at his computer screen, not really seeing anything as he stared. "To be quite honest," he finally said, "I've never seen Sherlock this concerned about a client before." He chuckled at little to himself to show humor, as he said, "I think he normally would prefer to use them as bait to catch the crook." Lestrade's face turned serious again. "There must be something very special about you."

Helen looked down at her feet uncomfortably, and then gazed back out the window. Lestrade realized that his comment had put her off, and he felt bad for it.

Helen glanced quickly at the wall, and then said, "I'd better go home, Detective Inspector." She moved towards the door.

"Wait, please Ms. Stoner," Lestrade began.

"Call me Helen," she said.

"Helen," Lestrade said quickly, "I'm sorry if I…"

"There's nothing wrong," Helen spoke over him, "Thank you so much for your hospitality, but I'm just very tired, and I'd like to go home."

"Sherlock was very worried about your safety," Lestrade said with urgency in his voice. "He insisted you remain here, and I think we should listen to his instructions."

"I agree," Helen replied with kindness, "But I'm sure Sherlock has everything under control." She sighed. "It's been a long day, and I just don't see getting any sort of rest here." She smiled, reassuringly.

"Well, I can't make you stay," Lestrade admitted, grudgingly. He reached into his jacket pocket, and handed Helen a card. "Take my card," he said. "At least promise to call me if anything happens and you can't reach Sherlock." He looked at her with a kind of fatherly concern.

"Thank you," Helen said, as she pocketed the card and smiled again at him. "I promise."

Lestrade nodded, still looking concerned. He remained at the door to his office, watching as Helen made for the elevators. Even after she was gone, he remained there, staring and thinking.

Sergeant Sally Donovan walked by, a bit confused at the sight of him standing there in the doorway. "What is it?" she asked him.

"I'm not sure," Lestrade said.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

Helen walked out of Scotland Yard, stopped on the curb to wait for a cab, and traveled home. She approached the front door to her flat, exhausted. She opened the door, stepped inside, and locked the door behind her.

An hour later, the flat was quiet and dark. The bed's occupant lied under the covers, at rest. The air was still, and nothing stirred.

In the living room, the floor to ceiling bookcase began to shift. A full panel of the unit slowly swung outwards, like the movement of a door. A tall, dark figure entered through the portal, created by the bookcase door. As the bookcase opened, a single book fell from its place on the shelf and onto the floor with a soft thud. The figure stood still, listening for movement or an intake of breath from the direction of the bedroom. None was heard.

The darkened figure moved, enshrouded in shadow, towards the bedroom, fixed on one goal. The figure reached a gloved hand into a trouser pocket, removing a small, plastic patch. The intruder moved to the edge of bed and starred down at its occupant. The figure made a move forward towards the slumbering target.

Suddenly, the lights came on, as the bed's occupant threw the covers off. Sherlock sat up in the bed, still wearing his coat, gloves and scarf. His eyes were ablaze with recognition and satisfaction. "How are you _Dr. Roylott_?" Sherlock asked with unparalleled delight.

Dr. Grimesby Roylott stood, looming in massiveness over the bed. "You meddler," he scathed, as he lurched forward at Sherlock.

"Stop right there Roylott!" John ordered. Roylott stopped and turned his head to see John standing in the corner of the room behind him, his gun trained on Roylott's center mass. John stood protectively in front of Helen, who dropped her hand from the light switch on the wall.

Roylott fixed his gaze on Helen. His look was ferocious and untamed. But the look in her eyes was something he had never seen before—a power he had never thought her capable of.

"It's wasn't you who came in before," Helen said, her voice quiet with unease, and yet unfearful.

"No, it wasn't him," Sherlock piped up with his usual smugness. Roylott rotated his head to look back at the detective. Sherlock's legs were extended on the bed, and he propped himself up with his hands. He appeared a bit out of place on the bed, fully clothed, including shoes, but he still looked as proud as ever.

"You thought that you had best do it yourself, if the job were to be done right this time," Sherlock continued. "You were the one who kept the flat next door—unknown to Julia and Helen of course. It's occupants coming and going to give the illusion of daily life, but in reality, working for you." The detective gestured to the living room. "That is a handy entrance to have." Sherlock leaned forward and spread his legs in a v-shape, bringing his arms forward as well. He seemed like an odd slumber-party-guest, about to tell a fantastic bedtime story. Though, he was a detective—the world's most famous detective—in front of a murderous lunatic. And he was loving every minute of it.

"Helen's alarm system monitors doors and windows, but it doesn't monitor movement inside the flat—and it certainly doesn't monitor a secret door that's supposed to be a walled bookcase," Sherlock said. His expression turned fiery. "You had Julia murdered right here," he said with venom in his voice, "and you were going to do the same to Helen."

Suddenly, Roylott made a move. "Roylott, stop!" John yelled as he pitched forward, gun in hand. Roylott ran out of the bedroom and towards the front door. In the same instant, Sherlock slid off the bed in one, fluid motion, running after their fugitive.

John hung back for an instant. "Stay here Helen!" he commanded. Then he ran after Sherlock and Roylott.

Helen, instinct taking over, ran after all of them, disobeying John's instruction. She followed the loud footfalls on the stairs and ran outside of the building. She could see Sherlock and John chasing Roylott down the street. She hesitated for a moment when a fast-moving car passed where she stood, its tires screeching on the pavement.

"Give it up Roylott!" Sherlock yelled ahead, with John at the detective's heels. Just then, a few loud cracks came from the car that had passed them and come up alongside Roylott. Sherlock felt himself being shoved to the ground by John's rough grip. Roylott fell to the concrete. Instantly, Sherlock recognized the sounds as gunfire, and knew that he had been brought down by the instinctual thinking of his army-trained friend.

Sherlock looked up from where he was lying on his stomach. John was next to him. Roylott was motionless a few meters ahead of them. The car pealed away at a dizzying speed, rounded a corner, and disappeared into the night.

Sherlock and John got to their feet. Helen stood from where she had dropped to a crouching position at the sound of the shots. She began to run further down the street to the pair.

John and Sherlock reached Roylott. Sherlock turned over the slumped man. Roylott's eyes stared up into the sky, seeing nothing. There was blood on the concrete.

"I got the license plate on the car," John said.

"Good for you," Sherlock remarked, even-toned.

"What happened?!" Helen yelled shakily from behind them.

John instantly ran to intercept her. He held her away from the scene. "Helen, no…" he began.

"I need to see!" she said over him, and broke free of John's grip. Her eagerness was almost beyond her control and rational thought. When she saw the scene, her lungs deflated and her knees buckled. She steadied herself on a fence to keep from losing balance and consciousness. The man that lie dead on the pavement was her stepfather—a man she hated—and yet the gore of the scene was real and raw.

Sherlock stared down at the mass of a body that belonged to Grimesby Roylott. Suddenly, he became aware of a pain on his cheek. He rubbed at it, and felt pieces of concrete and his own blood where he had scraped the ground during his fall. Sherlock looked at his own hand, inspecting the gray of the concrete and the red of the blood. He looked down at Roylott, and at the red of his blood mixing with the gray of the concrete pavement on which he lied.

Sirens could be heard approaching from the distance. No doubt, some civilian who had heard the scene from their home, had called it in. Meanwhile, Sherlock, John and Helen stood and welcomed the approaching din.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

"Are you sure you don't want one of the paramedics to take a look at you?" Sgt. Donovan asked a blanket-clad Helen, as they stood in front of her flat building. Sally Donovan held her pad of paper and pen in hand, as she inspected the young woman. As Helen looked off into the distance, Sally thought she saw the woman shiver.

But, when Helen looked up at the police Sergeant, her eyes were confident and calm. "No," Helen said. "I'm quite alright."

"I always say it's dangerous to cross paths with Sherlock Holmes," Donovan warned.

"It turned out dangerous for Roylott, yes," Helen said, matter-of-factly. "But not for me."

With that, Sgt. Donovan walked away, shaking her head. D.I. Lestrade came over to Helen next. They stood several meters from where Sherlock and John stood, where the crime-fighting pair seemed to be supervising the collection of Roylott's remains by those who were processing the scene.

Lestrade sighed audibly as Helen looked at him. He glanced down at his shoes before looking back to meet her continuing gaze. "He used you as bait, didn't he?" the Detective Inspector asked.

"Yes," Helen said, without hesitation.

"And you went along with it?" Lestrade asked, incredulously.

"Of course," Helen said easily.

Lestrade sighed again. "I thought…"

"What did you think?" Helen asked.

"I don't know what I thought," Lestrade said after a moment.

"I'm very sorry to have deceived you," Helen told him, as he watched her expressions. "When we were at Bart's, Sherlock told me what I had to do—what we had to do—to draw out my attacker. I'm sorry to have made you an unwitting participant."

Lestrade listened as Helen continued. "Sherlock suspected that I was being followed, as I had been before. We needed to lure whoever it was away from my flat while he and John went to set up there."

"So, he left you with me," Lestrade said.

"Yes," Helen confirmed, "with you, specifically, as you had a window that faced the street."

"Of course…" Lestrade began, with morose realization.

"I stood in front of the lit window, so that whoever was watching me from the darkened outside could see me," Helen continued, without hesitation or distress. "I watched the clock on your office wall, and left at the precise time at which Sherlock had instructed me beforehand. I took a cab to my flat, and waited with John and Sherlock for the curtain to rise."

"What if you had been attacked before you had reached them?" Lestrade asked with grave concern.

"Of course there was risk involved," Helen replied, unphased. She took in Lestrade's concerned expression and looked at him with reassurance. "I knew what I had to do. When Sherlock presented his plan to me, I knew what was necessary in order to ensure that I could have my life back."

Lestrade looked unconvinced, so Helen continued. "You told me you believed that Sherlock was a good man," she said. "And you seem to have confidence in his abilities. Can you fault me for believing the same?"

"I suppose not," Lestrade finally said. He nodded to himself. "I'm glad you're alright Helen." Helen nodded in gratitude. "Did Sgt. Donovan get your statement?"

"Yes," Helen replied.

"Good," Lestrade said, "Wait here. She may need to get some more information from you." Helen nodded again.

John and Sherlock watched a few meters away as Roylott's body was being loaded and taken away. "Lestrade will want the license plate information," John said.

"Forget about it, John," Sherlock said. John looked at him, curious. "Any number of people wanted Roylott dead: his accomplices, those he owed money to," Sherlock mused. "Is it really important to find out who killed a man that is better off dead?"

John looked over his friend, trying to figure him out. "So," John said finally, "this was quite the case." Sherlock said nothing in reply. John looked over at Helen, who stood far from them, talking to Sgt. Donovan. "So," John mused, "what will be the thing that you remember most about it?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Well," John said. He cleared his throat, and Sherlock followed his friend's conspicuous gaze, turning around to look briefly at Helen. John continued, "Of all that has happened, what will be the thing that sticks out in your mind the most?"

Sherlock watched his friend John, and raised an eyebrow. "The bookcase," Sherlock finally said, as he clasped his hands behind his back, and seemed to look past John into the distance.

"The bookcase?" John asked, surprised.

"It was odd, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked. "I must admit, I hadn't suspected that clandestine entrance until late in the game. Ingenious, really."

"What tipped you off?" John asked, as he crossed his arms on his chest, listening to his friend with incredulity and mild irritation.

"The books on the bookcase were all covered in dust," Sherlock explained. "Helen did say that she did the house cleaning herself. And obviously not very well." John watched his friend's emotionless expressions as he mentioned her name. "But there was one book that was not covered in dust," Sherlock went on.

"Why not?" John asked, finally curious.

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed, "because the dust had been knocked off of it as it had fallen to the floor as the bookcase panel was opened each time."

"Someone had been in Helen's flat before?" John asked, disturbed.

"Obviously," Sherlock said. "Most likely to scope out the murder; to see how heavy a sleeper she was."

"That's awful," John remarked, troubled.

"But, I must admit, it didn't occur to me until Helen came to Baker Street after she had been attacked. She said the doors and windows hadn't been disturbed. And neither had the alarm," Sherlock said. "And the whistle," he went on, excitedly.

"Yes, I was meaning to ask you about that," John said. "What was the whistle that Helen heard the night Julia died and the night she, herself, was attacked?"

"It wasn't a snake," Sherlock commented.

"That's clear," John said, remembering his previous theory.

Sherlock reached a hand into his pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a long, silver tube. He turned it over in his hand so that his friend could see. "I found this in the flat connected to Helen's while the police were processing the scene."

"What is it?" John asked.

"A whistle," Sherlock said. John rolled his eyes at the obviousness of the answer—clearly, he was looking for a more descriptive answer. "For fear of their bookcase entrance being discovered, one of Roylott's accomplices snuck into the flat where Julia slept that night, closing the panel behind them. There was no way to open it from Julia's side, and so, when the deed was done, he whistled to a second man on the other side, in the connecting flat, to open the panel for him to escape. He must have stayed around long enough to ensure that the poison was having its effect on Julia; but when Helen arrived, unexpectedly, and Julia went to the front door, the murderer signaled to the man on the other side of the panel. That was the whistle Helen heard."

"And it's the same one that Helen heard tonight when she was attacked in her flat," John remarked.

"Precisely," Sherlock confirmed.

With that, John followed Sherlock out of the hustle and bustle of police activity to where they could hail a cab. All suspicions that John had of his friend's feelings towards Helen were forgotten. Sherlock was as he always had been, and as he always would be: in love with his work. John's friend, the detective, had solved yet another case in his usual fashion. And the incredible twists of the mystery were what would be remembered most dearly.


	7. Chapter 7

A few weeks later:

Sherlock sat alone in the kitchen of 221 B, hard at work on an experiment. He held the Erlenmeyer up at eye level, making observations. The early afternoon light peaked through the curtains that were still drawn in the living room. The good weather outside went unnoticed. Instead, the detective remained entranced in the task at hand being carried out in the damp and dusty interior of his rooms and of his mind.

His mobile phone chirped, indicating a missed call and voice message. Sherlock glanced at his phone, which sat on the table at his left elbow. He hadn't heard the phone ring. But now, he picked up the phone and glanced at the missed call. He didn't recognize the number. _International_.

He clicked on the voice message and listened. A man with an American accent spoke. _"Sherlock Holmes, this is Jim McFarland with Pinkerton detective agency out of Michigan. I'm in town chasing down a mystery, and I hear you're good with those. Yeah, we've heard about you in the States too. Quite the reputation you have. Anyways, I'm hoping you can help. A man was murdered in his apartment two days ago. A man by the name of Ron Adair… he's connected to a client of mine. Adair was alone in his locked apartment when he died. Rather unusual circumstances. But I hear that's right up your alley,"_ McFarland's recorded voice chuckled. _"I'm staying at the… the Strand Palace Hotel in London. Please give me a call at your earliest. My cell number is…"_

Sherlock didn't bother to write down the number, since he already had it on his phone. Instead, he stopped the playback of the message and set his phone down on the table.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

A few days later, John and Sherlock sat across from each other at the Baker Street flat. Sherlock seemed engrossed in something he was scrolling through on his phone, and John sighed at the pile of letters on the table next to him. He set his teacup down and scooped up the pile. "Do you ever open your mail?" John asked as he flipped through each piece.

"There's no real point, is there?" Sherlock asked, not looking up.

"Paying bills might be a good reason," John said, as he continued to shuffle through the stack of envelopes. "Oh, here's one addressed to the both of us," he said suddenly. "It's from Helen."

Sherlock didn't look up. John tore open the envelope. “It’s a very generous check,” John said as his eyes widened. “And she included four tickets to a new production of Shakespeare's _Hamlet_ in the West End," he remarked, as he extracted and reviewed the letter's contents. "Helen says she is playing the part of Ophelia." John continued to read the note that was enclosed. "She asks that you and I, as well as Mary and Mrs. Hudson attend the opening night performance." John looked at a business card that had been enclosed, as he continued to read the note. "And she's included the name of a nanny for Violet for the night." John smiled. "How thoughtful."

Sherlock didn't offer any response to John's chatter. John looked at Sherlock with mild irritation. "I said, how thoughtful of her."

"Hmm, yes," Sherlock said. "I'm sure I'll be busy that night. You could take that man that Mrs. Hudson started seeing last month, or one of your friends."

"You're my friend," John replied. "You're going. You could use some culture." He paused to put the stack of mail back on the side table. "Plus, I've always wondered if Hamlet really saw the ghost of his father, or if it was just his imagination. I'll bet you could sort it out once and for all." John smiled to himself.

"What on earth are you talking about?" Sherlock asked as he looked up to meet John's gaze.

"Precisely," John said, with conviction. "You need culture." John then reached over to pick up the day's newspaper. "Did you see this?" he asked.

"What about it?" Sherlock queried.

"There's an article about Helen." John flipped a few pages in, and looked at the picture of Helen with Percy for the second time that day. " _Local Actress Turns Philanthropist_ ," he read the title. "It says here that she used a great deal of her inheritance to repay the clients that Roylott stole from." John paused, and then looked at his friend who had turned his attention back to his phone. "And you were right."

"Of course I was right," Sherlock said, "but what was I right about this time?"

"It says here that Helen is engaged to Percy Armitage," John replied.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, seeming far away in thought.

"You know," John mused, "If you ever got tired of detective work, you'd make a fair matchmaker."

Sherlock didn't answer. "We need to go," he said suddenly.

"Go?" John asked, a bit confused, "Go where?"

"We have a case," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Oh," John said as he perked up, eager for new excitement.

Sherlock rose from his chair quickly, and John follow suit. Mrs. Hudson walked in as the pair headed to the door. Sherlock took a deep breath suddenly, and looked at their landlady with a strange intensity.

"You're wearing a new perfume," he remarked. "No doubt from that new gent you insist on seeing."

Mrs. Hudson stuttered, not sure how to respond. John piped up, "Sherlock," with a warning tone.

"The scent is subtle," Sherlock went on. Then he came to stand next the beloved landlady. He paused and then said, "It suits you. You may want to keep this one around."

Mrs. Hudson gave a soft smile and gave Sherlock's arm an affectionate punch. The detective and the doctor walked downstairs and stood on the curb, waiting to hail a cab. Sherlock searched the street for an available cabbie.

"You know John," Sherlock said suddenly, "I think I could be a fair matchmaker."

John shook his head. "No, my friend," he said with a smile, "You keep to the more pleasant things of this world like mystery and murder. And let the rest of us handle the dangerous business of romance."

Sherlock upturned his lips in a slight smile, which he threw at his friend, as their cab pulled up. They both entered the vehicle and they were off.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

The man walked at a slow, steady and confident pace. His hair was clean cut and modern; his suit, crisp and bespoke; his eyes, blue and piercing. He surveyed the garden party—the Queen's Garden Party. These were the kinds of social events to which he always received an invitation. His philanthropy was well known by all who were worth knowing.

His thoughts paused for a moment and redirected their attention seamlessly to the attractive woman who walked past, smiling at him. His own smile in response conveyed much more than politeness or confidence. His practiced smile visibly affected the woman. He imagined the sequence of events that would play out if he had his way with her. And, in an instant, he could tell that she was imagining the same. It was at that moment that he expertly shifted his eyes away from her, walked past, and focused on the next subject that was approaching. He could feel the previous woman watching him walk away with a look of wanting—the same look that they all gave him. The same look that told him that they were thinking and believing exactly what he wanted them to think and believe: that he actually wanted them as well.

He continued to focus on the woman that now approached him. The skillful man handled this woman differently. He smiled warmly, and his eyes glistened with feigned admiration and deceptively humble fondness. The woman smiled warmly in response, to no surprise of his. He respectfully bowed himself before Her Majesty the Queen of England.

"Your Majesty," he addressed her in a smooth, rich tone. "It is so good to see you again so soon."

"Mr. Peters," the Queen said. "I am delighted to have you here. I do hope you are enjoying yourself."

"I always enjoy these quaint get-togethers you put on Ma'am," Peters said with a well-bred, humorous chuckle.

The Queen smiled with genuine amusement. "We are so grateful for your efforts oversees, and here at home, to make this world a brighter place."

"I have found my calling Ma'am," Peters said with practiced ease. "I only hope that others can be as lucky to find a way to make a difference as I have."

"Do continue in your work, Mr. Peters," the Queen said. "And thank you for being here."

"It is my upmost pleasure Ma'am," Peters said. He bowed again, and the Queen moved on to greet others in attendance.

Peters thought back on what the Queen had said. Yes, he must continue his work. It was, after all, very lucrative. And it had afforded him a place at the very top of society—a perfect vantage point from which to select even more targets to keep his lucrative business going.

There was only one thing that could potentially get in his way. And that one thing was England's favorite detective, Sherlock Holmes. Many had had their plans foiled by Mr. Holmes, Peters thought. But he would not be one of them. Sherlock Holmes was already well in hand. The ironic thing was, Peters thought, he didn't have to concoct much of a scheme to rid himself of Holmes. Holmes had taken care of that quite nicely himself. All Peters had to do was to set the right things in motion, and England would be forever free of the inquisitive Mr. Holmes.

Peters smiled at this thought. He smiled to know it had been a small fee to pay, to get a man to pretend to court Holmes' landlady. He needed to keep a watchful eye on 221 B's resident. Peters had even picked out some perfume for the landlady himself, and had given it to the paid suitor. He had always had delightfully impeccable taste.

Ron Adair had delivered the message to Holmes that Peters had given him. Whatever it took to shake Holmes from his comfortable pedestal would be what Peters would do. And it was proving to be so very easy—as easy as it was to get rid of Adair.

Peters smiled again. And then he smiled even more to know that the woman walking past him had thought he was smiling at her. Oh how wrong she was! But he smiled in return, and relished in the satisfaction of knowing that he had led her to believe that his smile was intended for her. In reality, it was never for any of them. It was never for anyone. It was a means to an end; and that end was now in his sights.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

Some time later:

The road in Chelsea was relatively quiet at this late hour. The knock at the door to the basement unit sent a pounding sound throughout the flat. Helen awoke with a start, and climbed out of bed quickly, with a sleepy and confused expression. She had almost arrived at the door when the knock came again. She peered through the eye hole in the door. Then, without hesitation, she opened it.

The light rain that was falling was collecting on Sherlock's coat. "Come in," Helen said quickly to her surprise guest. Her look turned to one of concern when she saw the expression on Sherlock's face. He rounded the corner and went to stand in the small and neatly decorated living room.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" Helen asked to Sherlock's back, which was turned towards her as he faced a modest mantel piece. Her tone was analytical. He didn't answer right away, and Helen wrapped her silk robe around herself tighter.

"This is cozy," Sherlock said finally, a hint of mania in his voice.

"I like it," Helen replied. Her expression was still one of concern, but she went along with Sherlock's conversational topic despite it. "It's much different than the flat in Knightsbridge," she paused. "But I didn't need any of that anyway," she said, "At least, I realize now that I didn't need it." She paused. "I felt it necessary to distribute much of my inheritance to the clients that Roylott robbed. They trusted my family after all. I wasn't left with much money after that, but this place suits Percy and I just fine. We have enough left for a wedding and something to start a family."

"Percy's not here," Sherlock said.

"No," Helen confirmed. "He's traveling for business." She sighed. "It's been difficult for him to find work. Despite me assuring the public that Roylott's actions were his own, the scandal that it left behind has made employers wary of hiring anyone associated with the firm, including Percy. But I'm also taking up theatre more now, and we get by."

Sherlock moved from his standing position and walked the length of the room twice, not saying a word and seeming to not hear her, with an expression that bordered on panic. Helen had never seen him look like this, and she guessed that not many others, that knew him better than she did, had seen him like this either.

"Sherlock," she said firmly, "What's going on? Why are you here?"

"Things you've done," Sherlock said, his eyes haunted, "they catch up to you." He paused. "Things _I've_ done, are catching up to me."

"What have you done?" Helen asked, a little fearful at his intensity.

Sherlock finally looked directly at her. "Are you sure that you want to know."

"I have a feeling that you know I'm not the type to judge what you've done," Helen managed to say matter-of-factly, "or you wouldn't be here."

"I need you to look at something," Sherlock told her suddenly, his tone still agitated. He pulled a few papers out of his suit jacket and handed them to her.

Helen sat down on a chair that was near to where she had been standing. Sherlock continued to pace, but came to rest at the front window that had a low view of the street. Helen looked at the papers, which appeared to be a printout of some kind of accounting. "It's a ledger," Sherlock said suddenly. "A man named Henry Peters keeps it. He's known to some as 'Holy Peters' for his supposed charity work."

"I think I've read about him" Helen said. "Wasn't he given some award recently?"

"He was recognized by the Queen in one of the highest ways," Sherlock interjected.

"The Queen?!" Helen exclaimed.

"For his charitable contributions to orphanages in South Africa and, more recently, his coordination of monetary relief efforts for refugee children," Sherlock said with a hauntingly sardonic chuckle. "These contributions are coordinated from other people's funds, of course."

"Of course," Helen said somberly. She then turned her attention back to the ledger that Sherlock had given her. "The money isn't going to those places, is it? You wouldn't be here otherwise."

"No," Sherlock said simply.

Helen took a close look at the monetary amounts listed on the ledger. There were lines that showed tens of thousands, and hundreds of thousands of pounds. Next to these amounts were capitalized letters in seemingly random pairings. "This looks similar to Roylott's ledger," she said gloomily. "And if that's true, then these letters represent people or accounts."

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Where are these funds actually going?" Helen asked.

"Drug trade, human trafficking, terrorist organizations… Who really knows?" Sherlock said whimsically.

"But you have some idea, don't you?" Helen asked him seriously. Sherlock didn't answer, but gave her a somber look.

Helen returned her eyes to the papers in her hands. "This is a large amount," Helen said worriedly, looking at a particular entry. "And the letters next to it read HMTQ." She skimmed down the sheet of paper. "This HMTQ shows up a number of times with large amounts." She looked up at Sherlock who was now watching her. "Do you know who HMTQ is?"

" _Her Majesty the Queen_ ," Sherlock said, his eyes watching everything, but seeing nothing. His voice shook a little as he spoke, which struck Helen.

"Sherlock," Helen said breathlessly, "If people found out that the Queen was involved in funding terrorists…" she swallowed hard. "It doesn't matter if she didn't know. Sherlock, did you hear me? It wouldn't matter if she didn't know what her money was used for," she said as Sherlock turned away from her to look out the window again. "Sherlock?!" she said with alarm.

"Yes," Sherlock manically.

"You've got to do something," Helen pleaded. "This Holy Peters has to be stopped."

"I know!" Sherlock yelled as he suddenly turned towards Helen with a look of intensity and panic. The sudden movement made Helen jump.

"I've tried," Sherlock said, with a hint of sadness in his voice. "But he's too smart. He's using what I've done against me."

"What is that?" Helen asked tentatively.

"I'm about to be brought up on charges of murder," he said. "Soon to be put away. And then to be shut up forever… They're going to throw the book at me so hard, the typeface will come loose!"

"The newspaper owner, Milver…something," she said.

"Magnussen," Sherlock corrected.

"I read about that. He was a blackmailer," Helen said with conviction. "I knew people that had the misfortune of crossing his path." She paused. "If you killed him, you ridded the world of someone that needed to be gotten rid of."

"It's not only him," Sherlock said, seeming to ignore her support. "The police think I murdered a man named Ronald Adair."

"Did you kill him?" Helen asked matter-of-factly.

"No," Sherlock said. "I was investigating his death when the police began to suspect me. They of course don't believe the Pinkerton agent that told them it couldn't have been me," he said more to himself.

Helen ignored the comment she didn't understand and plowed forward. "So what proof do they have that you killed him?" she asked forcefully.

"For starters, a witness that saw us in a confrontation on the street," he answered, sounding uncharacteristically panicked. "No doubt that witness came from the pub and gave his testimony in exchange for leniency on their little gambling operation… But I'm sure that Peters will fill in whatever holes they have in their evidence with payoffs and favors."

Helen shook her head and continued to set aside the things Sherlock said that she didn't understand. She knew he understood them, which was what was important. But she could see where this was going. Peters was setting him up. "You need to go for help," Helen pleaded. "What about Lestrade? He spoke very highly of you. I think you can trust him."

"This is way above his purview and pay grade," Sherlock said somberly.

"What about John?" Helen offered with urgency in her voice. "Or even Mary. Remember, I met her when they came backstage after _Hamlet_. They're good people. And John is a good friend to you."

"John? John?!" Sherlock whipped around the living room and came to rest heavily on a sofa. "I can't ask him to help. Not again. I can't leave Violet without a father as well!" he said, clearly agitated and despairing.

"What do you mean you can't leave Violet without a father _as well_?" Helen asked, becoming increasingly panicked. "Has something happened to Mary?"

"Peters is very good," Sherlock said, insanity in his voice and in his eyes. "Holy Holy Peters is very very good. He knows just how to ensure that I am broken, and that I will stay out of his way." Sherlock's voice dripped with hate.

"You can't just let him take everything away from you," Helen said vehemently. "I know a good barrister," she said, more pleading now.

"No. The law will not help," Sherlock said. Then he looked straight at her with sadness in his eyes. "I shouldn't have come."

"Let me help you," Helen said.

"How can you?" he said without feeling.

"I don't know," she shot back. "But you came here for a reason. I'll do what I can."

"No, there's nothing you can do," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry Helen." With that, he walked to the door and opened it.

Helen followed and held the door as she watched him leave. Sherlock walked down the quiet street, coat collar folded down, as the rain pelted his face and neck. He walked on, not caring to cover up from the cold, alone in his thoughts.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

Two days later:

Sherlock sat in his chair by the fireplace at 221 B, reading the paper. The early afternoon sunlight peered through the drawn curtains. His mobile phone chirped, indicating a new text message.

 _You and I_ _seemed to have crossed swords._ _Roylott's an interesting character, isn't he? His stepdaughter is pretty cute too. – IA._

A moment later, his phone chirped again.

_You must be hungry. Buy me lunch? – IA._

_IA. Irene Adler._ Sherlock read the text from The Woman and then set his phone back on the side table without further thought. He continued to skim the paper. He looked at the unflattering picture of himself on the front page that accompanied the accusatory article. Then his phone chirped again.

_Figure out where I am and we'll have lunch. – IA._

Sherlock sighed and tossed the phone back on the table with irritation. He got up out of his chair and headed to the washroom for a shower. A few minutes later, he came back into the living room, dressed in a robe, hair still damp. He picked up his phone to check for missed calls. Instead, there was another text message.

_Meet me where it all began._

Sherlock went into his bedroom to change into clothes. A minute later, he donned his coat and headed out the door.

**ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº**

One cab ride later, Sherlock sat on a bench in front of the posh flat building in Knightsbridge. Hyde Park was still there, across the street. Sherlock saw her round the corner onto the street. She approached him, but didn't sit on the bench.

She held out a paper cup. "Coffee," Helen said. "You looked like you needed some."

"How did you know that I looked like I needed coffee?" Sherlock queried.

"Well," Helen said, as she sat down, and he took the cup from her. "You looked like you could have used some coffee when you visited me, night before last. I assumed today would be no different." She smiled softly.

Sherlock looked back to the flat building in front of them that had once been Helen's home. "You said to meet you where it all began," he said. "So, here we are. Where it all began: your quest to find your sister's killer, on the night that she died."

"Yes," Helen said. "And it is also where my new life began. When you found Roylott. And this being where he died; it gave me a new beginning… all because of you."

"Why are we here?" Sherlock asked quietly, as if he was tired and drained from the weight of the world that he carried.

"Because you need help," Helen said.

"I should not have involved you," Sherlock said quickly.

"Perhaps not," she responded. There was a long pause. "I've done something," Helen said finally. "But I think it will help you."

Sherlock turned to face Helen. "What did you do?" he asked with what sounded like concern.

"I went to go see him," Helen said simply. "Henry Peters, I mean."

"What could that possibly accomplish?" Sherlock's voice rose with the question.

"It accomplished quite a lot," Helen said matter-of-factly. "For one, Mr. Peters acquired a new donor to his cause."

Sherlock watched Helen's expressions. She appeared unphased, deliberate, and calculated. " _You_ donated to his cause," Sherlock deduced.

"Yes I did," Helen said. Her tone was calm, and something in her eyes made Sherlock feel as though he were looking into a mirror. "I did," Helen repeated. "I, a former socialite, turned philanthropist." She continued, "He believed my sincerity quite easily. Especially when I gave him a story about my fiancé and me recently coming to the realization that we'd never have children of our own, and so we were wanting to take care of the children of the world."

"You lied to him," Sherlock said wryly.

"Yes," Helen replied. "But I found it quite simple." Helen watched the cars drive by on the street as she seemed to wax reflective. "When you're up on stage, as an actress," she said, "you can make the audience feel as if they are anywhere, and as if you are anyone. And those places, those people, and those ideas that you present to them are whatever you want them to be. If you want the people to cry, you can make them feel it. If you want them to laugh, you can make it happen." Helen looked at Sherlock. "And if you want him to believe that you're signing a check for his cause, and that you're even somewhat vulnerable to his easily detectable womanizing charms, then that's what he believes."

"Bravo," Sherlock said sardonically. "But what does this accomplish?"

"It gives you a way to track him," Helen replied.

"Helen," Sherlock said, "By now he would have laundered the money and sent it on its way. There is no way to trace it. I've tried."

"Ever since Roylott died," Helen said, "I've been trying to make things right with my family's clients. I've paid them back for the investments that Roylott stole. They've been grateful. But not everyone has made it easy."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"We know Roylott stole money from clients and gambled it," Helen said, "but there have also been questions about other criminal activity… There was an investigation into the firm, and into me."

"You weren't part of Roylott's activities," Sherlock said quickly.

"The people investigating don't know that," Helen said. "All they knew was that I dissolved the firm. But it was something I felt I had to do, so that I could distribute the remaining assets, including my inheritance… which was also suspected of being funded illegitimately."

"Your parents set that aside for you long ago," Sherlock said.

"Of course they did," Helen remarked, "but still the Financial Intelligence Unit has been monitoring all of my large, monetary transactions. Each time I've paid a client, they make sure that I've crossed my t's and dotted my i's."

"They're tracing all of your large transactions," Sherlock said with realization.

"Yes," Helen said, "including the check I wrote to England's beloved philanthropist yesterday… I'm just hoping you have some favors with someone in the government to allow you access to the relevant records."

"I might know someone," Sherlock said with sardonic nostalgia.

"Good," Helen said. "Then my donation was not in vain." She chuckled slightly. "Weddings and families can be done on a budget, even in England."

"How much did you give him?" Sherlock asked grimly.

"I thought one hundred thousand pounds would attract sufficient attention," she answered.

"A hundred thousand quid?!" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"All that I had left," Helen said.

"Why?" Sherlock asked as he looked at her.

"This place," Helen said, "it was where I thought my life had ended. But now, I see it as where my life began anew. And that is because of what you did. You deserve the same chance to start over."

"You shouldn't have done this," Sherlock said.

"It's an investment in England as well," Helen retorted. "If you don't take care of Peters before it gets out that the Queen has been unwittingly contributing to his scheme… It won't matter that she didn't know what he was doing. Take it from someone who's been subject to investigation and scrutiny for what her stepfather did. This will be a scandal of worldwide proportions."

"I think Peters is counting on that," Sherlock said. "Does Percy know what you've done?"

"No," Helen said simply.

"Will he understand?" Sherlock asked.

"Do any of them ever understand?" Helen asked, without feeling. Her response surprised Sherlock and he looked at her for a long moment. Helen broke the silence. "Well," she said with a smile, "it looks like you've got it from here."

Sherlock spoke as they both stood, "You cannot be involved beyond this point."

"I know," Helen said. "I'd only be in the way. I understand." She smiled, knowingly. "Goodbye Sherlock," she said.

"Goodbye," Sherlock said, as Helen began to walk away. "And Helen," Sherlock called after her. He paused for a moment, looking at Helen, and in that same moment realizing something about himself, "The path you've chosen – it's a lonely one to take."

"But it gets an important job done," Helen said, and then she turned and walked away.

Sherlock hailed a cab and got in. "Buckingham Palace," he told the driver.

"Are you going to have tea with the Queen?" the driver asked with a good-natured laugh at his own humor.

"Yes," Sherlock said, as the driver looked at him strangely. Sherlock dialed a number on his phone. "Brother mine," he said with sarcastic cheerfulness. "Meet me at Buckingham Palace."

He paused for the response. "Of course I'm wearing trousers," Sherlock said.

Mycroft said something. "Yes, Mary is still missing," Sherlock responded with extreme unease in his voice. "Though I know it's of no consequence to you," he prodded.

Mycroft said something else. "Well then," Sherlock said, "I'll have to stay away from Baker Street. Getting arrested would put a damper on our plans. We have work to do."

He then listened to Mycroft's question. "We'll be doing what we always do," Sherlock said in reply. "And that's saving England."

THE END

 


	8. Chapter 8

**APPENDIX:**

In this appendix, I have outlined (chapter by chapter) all the references throughout the story; references to the show, the canon, and to the actors. Compare your notes and see if you spotted them all as you read the story!

 **But first** , a note about some deeper thought that went into writing this story. Helen is not simply a character from the original canon story; in fact, in this fanfic, she is also a _literary device_ \- meant to teach us something about Sherlock.

Sherlock and Helen are, in fact, a chiasmus. A chiasmus is a literary device wherein concepts are repeated in reverse order (or reflective of each other) in order to bring your attention to one midpoint - one concept.  For example, at the beginning of the story, Helen comes to Sherlock, distraught and fearful, seeking help on a dark morning in the rain.  And at the end of the story, Sherlock comes to Helen, distraught and fearful, seeking help on a dark evening in the rain. 

Once you find the midpoint of the chiasmus of Sherlock and Helen in this story, you find out something about Sherlock's heart!  What do you think it is?

Please post your comments! I would love to hear what you have to say!

**Chapter One References:**

This list of references is by no means comprehensive. Since the story is based on "The Speckled Band," there are many references to the ACD canon throughout the story. But here, I will list the "Easter eggs" that may have gone unnoticed as you read the story - and ones that have some special significance.

1\. "When you walk with him, you see the battlefield."

This refers to Mycroft's meeting with John in Series 1, Episode 1 as they discuss Sherlock.

2\. "Occam's Razor, dear brother: the simplest answer is usually the right one."

When fans were coming up with theories as to how Sherlock survived his fall at the end of Series 2, Steve Moffat, in an interview, commented that the fans' theories were far more complex than what they (the writers) had in mind.

3\. "Solving crimes with John Watson; like that one about the computer engineer's thumb…"

This refers to ACD's story "The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb." In my story, I give it a modern twist, and apply it to a computer/software engineer.

4\. "I successfully saved an Enigma machine from being stolen from the museum… again."

An Enigma machine was actually stolen from the Bletchley Park museum in England, in the year 2000. If you Google it, you can find articles about it. In my story, I bring in a reference to Bletchley Park because of Benedict's acting role in "Imitation Game." And it also fits nicely with the computer engineer reference.

5\. "I'd hardly call a fire at Bletchley Park a success."

Here, I cross back into the ACD canon. In "The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb," a fire breaks out, destroying the criminals' operation, though the criminals flee before Sherlock can capture them.

6\. "Mr. Hatherley came to use too late."

In "The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb," Mr. Hatherley is Sherlock's client - he is the engineer referred to in the title. In the ACD story, the criminals evade Sherlock's capture – it is one of the few cases where he fails to bring the criminals to justice.

7\. "There are consequences for these kinds of things. Ones even I can't save you from."

Creators and writers, Mark Gatiss and Steve Moffat, have warned fans that Series 4 will bring consequences for Sherlock and those closest to him. This is a foreshadowing of that. And I weave this doom and gloom theme throughout my story in the form of metaphors and symbolism, as well as in the actual plot.

8\. "Keep me informed." "Of what?" "I have absolutely no idea."

This alludes to one of the first released Series 4 teaser trailers. I added this to see who was really paying attention :-)

9\. The scene when John comes to stay at 221B for the night.

In an interview, when asked what would happen to Mary in Series 4, Mark Gatiss seemed to rebuff any ideas of Mary possibly dying, but he said he envisioned her fate involving another "D" word – Divorce. We also know, from the ACD canon, that when John is married, Mary disappears from the stories shortly thereafter. It seems ACD wanted to go in a different direction, and we never really get an explanation as to what happens to Mary. Further on in my story, I present another theory as to what happens to Mary, in keeping with ACD's obscurity on the matter, and Gatiss' :-)

10\. "I can see by your right hand that it will all work out."

Sherlock looks at John's right hand to gage his resolve. Mycroft also did this during his meeting with John in Series 1, Episode 1.

11\. John's daughter's name is Violet.

In "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches," Violet Hunter comes to Sherlock and John with her mystery to be solved. During the course of the mystery, John comes to believe that Sherlock may care for Violet, but then realizes he was only interested in the case. I apply this theme to the character of Helen in this story as well. At the end, John asks Sherlock what he will remember the most about the case, and he claims it will be the bookcase, even though John, at first, expects him to say it will be Helen.

12\. The scene where Helen brings her case to Sherlock and John.

I stay pretty close to the ACD story here. It's one of my favorite and most remembered scenes from reading the story as a kid, and so I wanted to stay close to what I love and remember, with some new twists.

13\. "It is fear… it is terror."

This alludes to Helen's line in the original ACD story. It's one of my favorite lines from the original, and I wanted to refer to it for the benefit of the fans of the canon.

14\. "Please be precise with the details."

Again, this alludes to the ACD story, and one of Sherlock's lines in that story. It's another line that fans of the original story might recognize.

15\. "I heard a high-pitched whistling sound…"

Helen hears a whistle in the original ACD story as well. Though I give the whistle sound an alternative twist at the end of my story.

16\. "It's the spotted snake."

Like the original ACD story, Julia utters her dying words to her sister Helen. The obvious referral I make to a "snake" is meant to throw you off as a reader :-) While you are thinking of the original story of the "speckled band" or snake, I am weaving an entirely different tale.

17\. "Not a bruise or any disturbed or punctured skin…"

Again, the absence of marks on Julia's skin is meant to keep you guessing about whether or not Julia was attacked by a snake like in the original story.

18\. "Both of us had state-of-the-art security systems put in…"

In the original ACD story, both Helen and Julia put bars on their windows and locks on their bedroom doors to protect themselves from their stepfather's gypsy friends, and the wild animals that roam free on the grounds of their estate.

19\. "My work is its own reward."

Sherlock also refuses payment in the original ACD story.

20\. "Actually, I'm living there now."

In ACD's story, Helen moves into Julia's room after she dies.

**Chapter Two References:**

1\. "You're Holmes the meddler. Holmes the busybody."

In the ACD story, "The Speckled Band," Roylott uses these words with Sherlock.

2\. "It's just that I don't think people use the term 'busybody' anymore."

This is to poke fun of the Roylott in my story using the words of the Roylott from the 1892 story. The BBC show brings the Holmes stories of the past into the modern world, and I play with that concept as well with a little tongue-and-cheek humor.

3\. "He held [the poker] in both of his hands and, with a heave, attempted to bend it back straight. It didn't budge."

In the original ACD story, Holmes is able to bend the poker back. In my story, Sherlock is not able to bend it back for at least two reasons. First, for comedic effect. And second, it serves as a metaphor for Sherlock's current circumstances – the ones in which we left him at the end of Series 3 and TAB.

4\. "The flat was well-furnished and had a modern, comfortable feel, yet still displayed some classic elements."

Again, I play with the idea of bringing ACD's story into the modern age. Helen's flat is modern, and yet the classic elements pay homage to the classic estate of Stoke Moran in the original story.

5\. "I think the firm is Stoke & Moran, or something like that."

The estate in the original ACD story was called Stoke Moran; here, I make reference to it by making it the name of the property management firm.

6\. "He used to use this flat for parties he had with some very wild friends of his…"

In the ACD story, Roylott allowed gypsies and wild animals to live on his property.

7\. "When Julia died, Roylott was insistent that I move in here."

In the ACD story, Roylott made excuses about needing to renovate parts of the estate in order to move Helen into Julia's old room.

8\. "Roylott doesn't even have the security codes."

In the ACD story, Helen and Julia would lock their rooms from the inside when they slept, making it even more of a mystery that someone could have entered Julia's room to kill her.

9\. "… I went on to study at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art."

Benedict Cumberbatch attended LAMDA (the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art).

10\. "My first role was as Titania in _'A Midsummer Night's Dream.'_ "

One of Benedict's first roles was as Titania. American talk show host, Conan O'Brien, laughed with Benedict on his show about how Titania was supposed to be a part played by a woman.

11\. "John then noticed a long rope-like object hanging on the wall. It looked like an old-fashioned bell pull…"

In the original story, the snake used a bell pull to slither down to where Julia slept from a vent above it. In my story, there is no vent above the bell pull.

12\. The books on Helen's shelves are _"Oedipus Rex"_ and one about Machiavellianism.

"Oedipus Rex" is a Greek play about a cursed family. In my story, it alludes to the fact that Helen's family seems to be cursed with death and sadness. It is suggestive that the book that is about a cursed family is on the bookcase that turns out to be the entrance into Helen's flat for the attacker. Machiavellianism is the idea that "the ends justify the means." It has been suggested that Sherlock's personality follows that theme.

13\. "You think a snake killed Julia Stoner?"

Sherlock's quick dismissal of John's killer snake theory is an obvious referral to the original ACD story. I use the theory here to show the reader that not everything is as it seems; or, not everything is as it was in the original ACD story. I want to keep you guessing!

**Chapter Three References:**

1\. The scene depicting less than marital bliss between John and Mary.

After John gets married, in the original ACD canon, Mary falls out of the picture, though Doyle never explains what happens to Mary. The creators of the BBC show have alluded to the fact that something "devastating" will happen to Mary. One fan asked Mark Gatiss if she would die. Instead, he hinted that he had always thought divorce was their fate. This scene between John and Mary is meant to hint at what the writers of the BBC show have given us prior to Series 4.

2\. "She passed the time with getting involved in things that were better left alone."

This alludes to Mary's past and suggests that she is unsatisfied by a quiet life at home. At the end of my story, we find out that Mary has gone missing, which suggests that she has gotten herself into a bit of trouble with that adventurous spirit of hers.

3\. "There's a snake usually found in India…"

In the original ACD story, "The Speckled Band," Roylott served a jail sentence for killing his butler from India. And it is also where the Daboia viper is found.

4\. The entire scene in the lab where John is explaining his snake theory to Sherlock.

In the original ACD story, Julia stoner is killed by a snake. It was my intention here to bring that theory out into the open to refer to the canon and to keep the reader guessing about whether or not I'd stick to the original manner of death in my story.

5\. "The Daboia viper also emits a high-pitched sort of whistle before it attacks."

This is true, the viper makes a whistling sound. In the original ACD story, Helen hears a whistle, and later we find out that it was Roylott calling the snake back to him. In my story here, I'm tying the idea of the snake and the whistle together to refer to the original story.

6\. Percy Armitage's appearance.

I fashioned Percy to refer to Benedict Cumberbatch in his appearance. He has the same natural hair and eye coloring as Benedict. And he appears in the same outfit that is most loved by fans – a suit.

7\. "After all, they were romantically involved at one point."

In the original ACD story, Percy and Helen are engaged to be married. Here, their relationship is a bit rocky, brought about by some tense feelings after Julia dies. But, at the end of my story, they end up together and all is well.

8\. "Did you know that that newspaper owner, Charles Milver-whatever died…"

The writers of the BBC show change this villian's name to Charles Magnussen, but in the ACD story, he is known as Charles Milverton. The fact that Percy makes the mistake of starting to call him Milverton is a reference to the ACD canon.

9\. "Our friend—the director in the West End—she told me you auditioned for a production there."

In keeping with the theme of using Percy as a sort-of reference to Benedict, this vague reference to a director in the West End is meant to refer to Benedict's wife, Sophie Hunter.

10\. "Come at ten and find a place across the street where you won't be seen. Then watch for a light in the upper floor window to turn on. That will be your cue to come in and join me…"

In the original ACD story, Helen lights a lamp and places it in the window of her room to signal Sherlock and John to enter the estate to wait for the intruder.

**Chapter Four References:**

  1. "And speaking of leaving things to those who can handle it--Roylott gave me the Freeman account."



The name, Freeman, refers to Martin Freeman.

  1. "One of the windows suddenly became fully illuminated, as the light in the room was turned on. 'That's our cue, John,' Sherlock said. They swiftly moved across the street and entered the unlocked doors of the building."



In the original ACD story, Helen lights a lamp to signal to Sherlock and John to enter the Stoke Moran estate to wait for her would-be attacker. In my story, the light of the window is used to signal safe entrance into the Stoner Capital offices.

  1. "Now Sherlock thinks he knows everything about computers. You'd think that he thought he was Turing himself."



Again, this is in reference to Benedict's role as Alan Turing in "The Imitation Game."

  1. "'Steganography,' the detective said simply."



Sherlock Holmes has always been on the forefront of forensic technology. Since the BBC show brings Sherlock into the modern world, I only thought it fitting for us to see Sherlock utilizing the latest in forensic techniques.

  1. "'He did hide his files in these images.' Sherlock focused his attention on one image of a goose standing on a lakeside."



Here, I refer to the ACD story, "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle" where the prize is hidden within the goose.

  1. "'The Viper,' Sherlock cut her off, and cut the air, with his words--repeating the name that he had found penned on the back of the old picture."



In the original ACD story, Roylott keeps a deadly snake. In my story, Roylott himself is the snake, as is alluded to by his nickname here.

  1. "'Yes, the goose holds the prize, doesn't it?' Sherlock remarked."



Again, I refer to "The Blue Carbuncle" here.

  1. Ron Adair



This character was in the ACD story, "The Adventure of the Empty House" in which Sherlock comes back after his "death" with Moriarty. Ronald Adair is a gambler who is found dead in his locked flat.

**Chapter Five References:**

  1. “’This report,’ he said, placing his hand firmly on the post mortem file, ‘denoted the presence of a speckled rash on Julia’s arm…’”



Here, I refer to the title of the original ACD story “The Speckled Band,” as well as referring to the BBC writers’ allusion to the ACD story in their show in John’s blog post about “The Speckled Blonde.” In the BBC show, they allude to a case in which a deceased blonde woman had speckled skin. In my story, it’s a small, speckled rash.

  1. “’This patch was crafted to affix to the skin and deliver the poison by cutaneous absorption. Through the skin.’”



Like the ACD story, the manner of death is still a deadly poison – just of a different type.

**Chapter Six References:**

  1. “A tall, dark figure entered through the portal, created by the bookcase door.”



Like the ACD story, the culprit gains access to Helen’s living quarters via a surreptitious entrance. And thus, the “locked room mystery” is solved.

  1. Sherlock and John waiting in Helen’s flat.



In the original ACD story, Sherlock and John staked out Helen’s room at Stoke Moran to see if the murdered would reveal himself, or in that case, itself, as it was a snake. In my story, Sherlock and John are waiting and watching also.

  1. “Roylott stopped and turned his head to see John standing in the corner of the room behind him, his gun trained on Roylott’s center mass.”



John also brought his gun in the original ACD story.

  1. “’You had Julia murdered right here,’ he said with venom in his voice, ‘and you were going to do the same to Helen.’”



Any references I make to “venom” or “poison” in my story is meant to allude to the venom/poison of the snake in “The Speckled Band.”

  1. “Roylott ran out of the bedroom and towards the front door. In the same instant, Sherlock slid off the bed in one, fluid motion, running after their fugitive.”



When startled, the snake in the original ACD story also flees the room.

  1. “Sherlock turned over the slumped man. Roylott’s eyes stared up into the sky, seeing nothing. There was blood on the concrete.”



In the original ACD story, Roylott is killed by his own snake fleeing the scene of the crime. In my story, Roylott also meets a nasty demise.

  1. “’So, he left you with me,’ Lestrade said. ‘Yes,’ Helen confirmed, ‘with you, specifically, as you had a window that faced the street.’”



Here, I again allude to the light in the window that Helen lit in the original ACD story to signal to Sherlock and John. Only this time, in my story, it’s being using to signal to and deceive whomever is following Helen.

  1. “’For fear of their bookcase entrance being discovered, one of Roylott’s accomplices snuck into the flat where Julia slept that night, closing the panel behind them. There was no way to open it from Julia’s side, and so, when the deed was done, he whistled to a second man on the other side, in the connecting flat, to open the panel for him to escape…’”



In the original ACD story, Roylott uses a whistle to signal his snake to return through the vent to his room. In my story, it is used to signal the return of Roylott’s accomplices through the secret door in the bookcase. 

  1. “All suspicions that John had of his friend’s feelings towards Helen were forgotten. Sherlock was as he always had been, and as he always would be: in love with his work.”



Throughout my story, certain characters suspect that Sherlock may have more than a professional interest in Helen. John, Molly, Lestrade, and even Percy to a slight degree, all have their suspicions of Sherlock’s feelings towards Helen. In ACD’s story “The Adventure of the Copper Beeches,” John suspects Sherlock of having a romantic inclination to their client, Violet Hunter. But, in the end, his admiration only lasts as long as the case. In my story, I allude to this by leading the characters (and the reader) to believe that Sherlock cares for Helen; only to find out that he does not. Or does he?

**Chapter Seven References:**

  1. “’Sherlock Holmes, this is Jim McFarland with Pinkerton detective agency out of Michigan.’”



James McParland was a real life agent of the Pinkerton Detective Agency (back in the time of Doyle), an American private investigations firm that is still in existence today, and is headquartered in Michigan. Doyle included a fictional Pinkerton detective as a character in “The Valley of Fear” who was based on James McParland. In my story, I also have Sherlock meet and work with a Pinkerton agent, only this time, his name alludes to the real man.

  1. “A man was murdered in his apartment two days ago. A man by the name of Ron Adair… he’s connected to a client of mine. Adair was alone in his locked apartment when he died.  Rather unusual circumstances.”



The case that McFarland brings to Sherlock is one that ACD fans will be familiar with: the death of Ronald Adair. In “The Adventure of the Empty House,” Sherlock returns from his fall with Moriarty, and solves the murder of Adair, which is another “locked room mystery.”

  1. “’I’m staying at the… the Strand Palace Hotel in London…’”



The Strand Palace Hotel is a real hotel in London. I picked this one to refer to the magazine in which ACD’s stories appeared, “The Strand Magazine.”

  1. “’It’s four tickets to a new production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet in the West End,’ he remarked, as he extracted and reviewed the letter’s contents. ‘Helen says she is playing the part of Ophelia.’”



In my story, Helen is performing in a play in which Benedict Cumberbatch also starred: Hamlet. She plays the part of Ophelia, which is also a tragic character, like Helen herself – having lost all the family she had.

  1. “’Plus, I’ve always wondered if Hamlet really saw the ghost of his father, or if it was just his imagination. I’ll bet you could sort it out once and for all.’”



This is a bit of a tongue-and-cheek reference. If Benedict played the part of Hamlet, perhaps he could tell us if the ghost was real, or just Hamlet’s imagination: the age-old question of readers of Shakespeare everywhere. And if he couldn’t, perhaps the world’s greatest detective Sherlock, also played by Benedict, could.

  1. The Henry “Holy” Peters character.



Peters was in ACD’s story, “The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax.” In his story, Peters also scams money and belongings from unsuspecting people. In my story, I add some modern elements, making Peters an extortionist who gets people sympathetic to the cause of refugee children to donate to his criminal enterprises.

  1. “’The newspaper owner, Milver…something,’ she said. ‘Magnussen,’ Sherlock corrected.”



Like Percy, Helen also makes the mistake of almost referring to Magnussen as “Milverton,” which was the original name for this villain in the ACD stories.

  1. “’When you’re up on stage, as an actress,’ she said, ‘you can make the audience feel as if they are anywhere, and as if you are anyone. And those places, those people, and those ideas that you present to them are whatever you want them to be. If you want the people to cry, you can make them feel it.  If you want them to laugh, you can make it happen.’” 



Not only is Helen mirroring some of Sherlock’s attitudes here; this is also a reference to Benedict’s recitation of Shakespeare’s “All the World’s a stage” for BBC One.

  1. “Mycroft said something. ‘Yes, Mary is still missing,’ Sherlock responded with extreme unease in his voice. ‘Though I know it’s of no consequence to you,’ he prodded.”



In “The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax,” Lady Carfax goes missing. Perhaps Mary meets the same fate up against Holy Peters in my story…


End file.
